


"Redemption, My Love."

by SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Abuse, All relationships with Percival are PLATONIC, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, At least our boy doesn't have confidence issues or esteem? MAYBE..., Blood and Gore, Crisis of Faith, Dad Gawain, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Gawain is So Done, Gawain is along for the ride, Gawain trys not to care but fails, He cares to much, He is a Survivor, How Do I Tag, I will handle all events as realistically as I can, Lancelot Centric, Loss, Loss of Faith, Loss of Identity, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Trust, M/M, No Beta, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Overprotective Gawain, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Percival has adopted Lancelot, Percival is a Gem, Percival is terrified of being alone, Percival is their son, Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexuality Crisis, Sharing A Tent, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Sometimes the brain cell, Squerril is a ball of unharnesed energy, Underage Rape/Non-con, Violence, Which is the whole reason Lancelot is where he is now, Why do I always Hurt the ones I love, Will add tags as I think about them, all the kinds, dark themes, he care, including:, redemption arc, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28193088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight
Summary: Post season one: Gawain lives and tracks down one Weeping Monk and one Squirrel. He is surprised to find the young boy so protective of the monk, but when he hears the story his heart softens a touch. It helps that Percival argues that he is a knight now and owes the monk a life debt. Gawain knows things will get interesting, but he himself had said, "All Fey are brothers, even the lost ones." Maybe now this lost brother will come home. Little does he realize that in the process of helping Lancelot come home, discover his roots, learn to love himself and others, to differentiate between kindness and hate, that he would fall in love.or Lancelot is accepted among the Fey, barely, and spends the next three years learning what Redemption means and trying to attain it while fighting for the Fey cause. oh, and in the process he finds love in the form of the Green Knight, and family in Pym and Squirrel.Probably Wildly Canon Divergant.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), platonic - Relationship
Comments: 38
Kudos: 60





	1. Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so I've written a lot for The Witcher, dabbled in Merlin, Legend of Zelda, and others but here I am for the first time. 
> 
> I hope that I do the characters justice. I'm excited to write for this fandom, and very glad to have discovered it.  
> This idea just kind of came to me at the end of Season one and It wouldn't leave me alone. I have no idea how long it is going to be and for that I am sorry. :) 
> 
> Please feel free to comment! I encourage it because it encourages me!

+++GAWAIN+++

When he came to, Gawain could only smell earth. He nearly panicked as his other senses came around. He dared not open his eyes, the weight atop them was damp, combined with the smell of soil at his nose told him doing so would not help him. He could feel that same damp across his entire boy. His body should be in agony, but instead felt well rested and miraculously unharmed. He can taste honey and chamomile on his tongue. He doesn’t understand. Experimentally he curls his toes. They move without pain or numbness. Regaining his mind, he stretches out his hearing, listening quietly for anything to help him. The last he knew he was in the paladin camp being tortured. Panic rises quickly in his chest as remembers Squirrel. He bites down on that, refrains from hyperventilating. It sounds like the camp is in chaos around him. Slowly, sensing no one around him, he lifted his hands to his face and wiped away moss and flowers. He sits up, brushing more of the same from his tattered and torn clothing. A quick look around shows he’s no longer in the kitchens and his mind remembers darkness. 

He had died. If not entirely he had been very close. Right on his way.

He swallowed back the rising sour taste in his mouth. Then he promptly vomited. 

Wiping the back of his mouth Gawain got to his feet. He could not linger. Quickly he looked for a weapon, boots, and a cloak. In that order. Defence then survival. Armed with a knife more suited to hunting than fighting, clothed in a faded and tattered brown cloak and too tight shoes he slit the back of the tent and entered the dawn light. The camp appeared half abandoned and in chaos. It was perfect conditions for him to escape. Following the edge of the camp he comes across the bodies of many men dressed in black with gold masks dead. He knows these kinds of injuries; the weeping monk had killed these men. Taking a measured risk he utilizes every bit of knowledge he possesses on tracking, a fair amount given the necessity of it, and notes that there are a set of large footprints oddly close to much smaller prints. It’s as though the larger individual had been held up by a smaller one. They lead to where a horse had been tied up, and where several more horses are located. He gathers two blades from the fallen paladins and steals a horse. No one notices in the chaotic state of the camp. He has a hunch, but doesn’t dare to hope. He knows he should have checked the “kitchens” but he could hear the whispers of the Hidden leading him. He would not doubt them now. So he followed the whispers and the tracks. He notes almost absently that the hidden drag themselves across the pathway distorting and destroying the evidence of his and his predecessors' tracks. They are several hours old. 

Being brought back to life did not fill him with energy as one might expect; and now having been on the move for a while, he can feel that while his numerous wounds were no longer visible on his skin, the underlying damage was present. He could feel the stiffness in his muscles. Still he pressed on at gallop. He needed to gain on The Monk, and Percival. To catch them. Exhaustion pulled at his limbs, but he hoped they were moving away from the camp as quickly as was possible for them. The boys’, Percivails, safety is his first priority. The Monk's redemption only slightly lower on the list, especially if he had saved Percival from the hell he himself had come from, and Gawain had died in.

The sun is high in the sky now, his stomach growling. He glances down at his hands on the reins, lost in thought, until with a start, he notices that his hands are tinged slightly yellow green. It’s almost like he had rubbed grass into them. He pulls back the sleeves of his ragged green top and notes that it spreads up his arms. Residue from the Hidden. He’s certain, it has to take a lot of magick to bring someone back from the dead, even for the gods. He shakes his head, and hopes that he doesn’t scare the boy with his new, hopefully temporary skin. Then he laughs, loud and deep. The Hidden certainly have a sense of humor; turning the green knight green. He pushes the mare harder. Desperation creeps in on him as the sun begins to wane in the sky. 

+++PERCIVAL+++

He sits ramrod straight in the saddle. The Weeping Monk, Lancelot, is leaning heavily against him. Hands in his lap barely grasping the reins. He almost reaches out for them. He’s not sure the other man is aware of what he’s doing and Percival pushes the embarrassment aside to focus on more pressing matters. Silence has fallen between them and he thinks he should speak to fill the quiet, but if he is speaking he isn’t thinking. The quiet terrifies him, but the lesson he learned from his father, and he practices it now. He had seen the man's hand turn green when he fought the Green Knight. He swallowed down his sorrow. He had to be brave now. He would mourn later. Always later. Lancelot was Fey kind. Why had he killed so many? Why had he killed Percivals parents. He cries then, silent tears. Scowls at himself and holds back the sobs trying to push from his throat. He is so tired. His mind switches gears. Despite everything he’d done, the injured man behind him had fought the Trinity Guard, that’s what they had been called, to save him. Percival didn’t feel as though he could leave the man now. He didn’t know how he felt about him, but twice he had saved his life, that meant he had a debt, a life debt. He swallowed again. He’d patch the man up, make sure he was healing and safe and then hope that it was even. He can hear the other man's breathing in his ear, shallow and pained even as he tries to hide it. He can smell blood and dried sweat. He is familiar with the scents. He swallows several times. The sun is beginning to set.

“How badly are you injured?” His voice cracks from disuse and thirst.

“M’fine.” Lancelot's voice is muffled, damp breath tickling his shoulder. 

“Lying is bad. You’re a monk. You should know that! Didn’t your parents ever teach you that?” 

“They’re dead.” The Monk is a little more awake, sitting up straighter and wincing.  
“I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have lied. But I do not wish to alarm you.” His voice dropped lower, “ and I have been taught not to show weakness.” 

“Fools taught you that. We all have weaknesses and strengths, that’s why we need people. If we stop for the night I can help you clean them and I know some herbs that Pym taught me to help with pain and infection.” He doesn’t turn. Lets the words hang even though he has more to say. When the Monk doesn’t respond he continues. “Besides I need water, and to take a--”  
“You have a terrible mouth, child. But you are right. We need proper rest, and we should be far enough away now to do so for a few hours. But a few hours only.” He nods as the Monk leads his horse off the path and towards the brook he can hear just out of sight. 

“What’s your horse's name anyways?” 

“Goliath.” 

“Why? What does it mean?” 

“He’s named after a giant.” He feels a hot breath against his neck again. Boy does this man like to sigh, like some sad maiden.

“Is there more than that? What did this giant do? Where did he come from? Why name a horse after him?” Percival needs to break the constant quiet, has decided to offer wary trust to the Monk, and really he doesn’t like that answer. It feels like a hollow answer. He hates those. Hates them with a passion, he isn’t some idiot who doesn’t understand and he isn’t a child anymore. Maybe his body is but he has lived so much. Lancelot doesn’t say anything so he falls quiet and nearly shouts with relief when his feet make contact with the ground. He stumbles his feet numb from riding so long. He stretches them bending at the waist and trying to touch his toes. Then he looks at Lancelot who is gingerly stepping down from the stirrup. His face is bloody and bruised. His own eye hurts. Then he remembers he needs to go. He looks at Lancelot, then the woods. He could just not come back but this man had saved him. 

“I’ll be back, I need to pee. And I’ll find some herbs to help with-” He makes a face and gestures at the entirety of Lancelot's body.

+++ LANCELOT+++

Despite himself he smiles at the boy and nods. It cracks his lip open and he tastes fresh blood. The boy, Percival, he reminds himself, is an interesting individual. He knows they will need a small fire to sanitize a needle for the sutures he’s going to put in himself, and the blade to staunch the worst of the bleeding. But first he needs to wash the wounds with clean water which means boiling it. It’s risky, but he doesn't have an option. If infection sets in then he can’t get the boy back to his people. He can’t die until that is done. He will only do the bare minimum. As he collects firewood, at a devastatingly slow pace he thinks about the boy's questions. 

He had in fact named his horse after a Philistine leader intent on destroying God's chosen people. He laughed softly. Yes, even in naming his horse he had let the demon inside him loose. What man of God would ride into a battle in the name of the Lord atop a horse named after a giant intent on tearing down his kingdom. It was the kind of Juxtaposition he found in his life far too often. He should beat himself for being a blasphemer. But right now he has a mission and it will have to wait. He can’t lose any more blood tonight. 

He stacks the wood into a square leaving space for the air to flow through it. He fills the centre with chips of bark, little sticks, and dry moss. It ignites on the first strike, it always does when he tries to start a fire. It sparks green, but quickly turns red and orange. The small fire going he removes a metal canteen from his saddlebags and fills it with water. The other is full of clean water for drinking. He takes a long pull from it and saves the rest for Percavil. He will make sure they are well hydrated before he starts on his wounds. Kneeling he fills the empty canteen and brings it to the fire to boil. He searches his saddlebags for the supplies he needs. He knows what's in it and is grateful it is all there. A ceramic mortar and pestle, a larger wooden bowl, a change of clothing, needle and thread, bandages and antiseptic.

Percival rejoins him, and his shirt is full of stuff. He sets it down by the fire and Lancelot holds out the canteen before the boy can disappear again. He notes how the boy eyes him, then smells the liquid before taking a hesitant drink that turns to gulps. 

“Go refill it then after they’ve boiled you can have more.” He nods, understanding. Silently he does as told. Lancelot notes the boy has brought fruits, nuts, mushrooms, all edible and an array of medicinal herbs. He knows some of them, a lot of them really. He thinks he should be surprised but he isn't; his mother was the healer of his village. He frowns, she would be ashamed of him, rejecting all of her teachings and becoming a killer of his kind. 

Percavil returns and Lancelot offers him some of the jerky from his saddle bag. The boy takes it happily and gnaws on it between the berries and nuts. They share. It’s meager but the hunger ebbs.  
“I set a snare. Maybe it will catch something.” Percavil says after a while.  
“Resourceful of you. Good forethought.” He says, unsure why, but the way the boy's face lights up softens something in his heart. They drink from the cooled water and he sends Percavil to refill it. The boy does as asked and when he returns he stares at the work Lancelot has set himself to. He's grinding the herbs together to make a paste, adding water as he goes until it makes the right consistency. Done he sets it aside and unlatches his cloak, then his bracers. He lets out a long breath. He doesn’t want the boy to see this. Not really. But even he knows he will need help to dress the wounds properly. He hesitates and takes the rag to his face, washing it as well as he can. 

“You know how to mix herbs?” 

“My mother taught me when I was little. Very little.” He mumbles out and finishes the task. He touches the hem of his shirt. He grits his teeth he knows’ the wounds are stuck shut, attached to the shirt. He yanks it over his head in one movement. Breath catching in pain. He lets out a strangled moan as warm, fresh blood spills down his back and sides. He continues washing down his front and his arms. Steady. Determined. He can’t reach his back, won’t ask the boy. He starts applying the salve. Refuses to ask why the boy is staring and not speaking, does his best to ignore it. Swallows back the panic. Hunches in on himself. The voice is little when it leaves the boy. 

“Can I help? You can’t reach your back.” He stares into green eyes, finally he nods. His voice will betray him. He forces himself to still, to stay calm as the boy gingerly tends his back. He inhales sharply and freezes. Percival doesn’t notice, he just keeps cleaning the wounds. Lancelot returns to applying the salve to his front, arms, and sides. If the Green Knight decides to kill him, then he will gladly lay bare his throat. Eventually he hands Percavil the bandages and together they get him covered in them. He can’t stitch the punctures, it won’t do any good. If his back needed stitches he can’t reach. The sting of the antiseptic lingers. The Green Knight finds them as Percavil puts the last knot in the bandages, but doesn’t make his presence known. 

“Sit Percavil, let me see your eye.” The coarseness in his voice startles even himself. 

“It’s fine.” The boy gruffs rubbing at his good eye. 

“Can you see your own eye?” He's to tired to fight with him.

“No. But I can feel it.” Exhaustion is heavy on his face, and Lancelot is almost ready to give up. He try's one more attempt.

“Well I can see it.” He cuts the boy off with a gesture to sit. Begrudgingly the boy does. It isn’t bad, he wipes the boy's face and probes at the edges, but there isn’t anything to be done but let time do its job. He inhales as he hands the boy his cloak. The sun is nearly gone. 

“Sleep Percival. We leave in a few hours.” His voice caries the weight of his own exhaustion. The boy nods and curls up beside him. He watches as his breathing steadies and the exhaustion from the day draws him into sleeps embrace. 

When he looks up from the now sleeping form it’s to lock eyes with the Green Knight.


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Lancelot share a conversation. Both think they should be trying to kill the other, but their both to exhausted to do any fighting. Besides there is something more important to be discussed. 
> 
> Percival discovers The Green Knight is alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, back with chapter two. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read so far. I really hope you enjoy what I'm doing. I have some thoughts on the characters that I'll share at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> I hope to update minimum once a week, but we will see how that goes. Especially with the holidays. Speaking of which, whatever you celebrate I hope you have a wonderful time. 
> 
> I know the POV switches mid chapter can become difficult to follow. So if that's the case please tell me in the comments and I'll switch to writing the chapters from a single POV. 
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts! I love hearing from you all.

+++GAWAIN+++

He watches as Percival settles down to sleep for a few hours and looks up to lock eyes with The Monk. He had waited, observing. Learning. Now that time for planning and observing was gone. Slowly he steps out of the woods and into their small clearing. The fire between them is nothing more than glowing coals. The Monk holds his hands up, fingers spread and Gawain nods his head in acknowledgment. He can’t imagine what he looks like and doesn’t find the energy to care. Slowly he moves further into the clearing, wary. His eyes never leave The Monks. Slowly he sits across the coals from him. 

“Are you armed?” His voice sounds strange in his own ears. 

“Yes.” The Monk answers the singular word clear, quiet enough not to wake the boy but loud enough to be heard. Gawain nods again. 

“Where?” He does not expect honesty, or truth, but watches for any sign of the weapon's whereabouts. The flicker of his eyes, the barest movement of his uncloaked half naked body. 

“A long dagger under the saddle blanket, a knife in each boot and this one here.” The Monk's voice does not waver. Gawain watches as he picks up the short knife from the ground in front of him and tosses it closer to his horse, then does the same with the other two. He loosens his death grip on his own sword resting across his lap. An act of trust then? Or perhaps a ruse? He narrows his eyes in suspicion but gives another nod. He watches The Monk swallow, allows his eyes to flick to Percival and then back. It’s a weakness but so far The Monk has done no harm to the boy. 

“He’s all right. A black eye, split lip, exhausted, healthy otherwise.” The Monk seems to read his mind, speaking soft into the night air. Face alight by the dying embers of the fire. Slowly The Monk picks something up from his side. Gawain tracks the movement, the water canteen. Involuntarily he swallows, reminded of his own thirst and hunger. The Monk tosses it over the fire, grimacing as he does so. Gawain catches it smoothly from the air and nods.  
He knows from watching the two drink from it that it’s safe. So he uncorks it and drinks, sipping slowly. When he finishes the two stare in silence. The Monk breaks it. 

“ You caught up with us… how long did it take you?” The Monk is nervous, eyes flicking around the darkness. 

“I rode hard all day. You were tending your wounds when I found you. No one was behind me. Were safe for the moment. The Paladin camp was in chaos… I may have set a fire or two on my way out as well.” He says slowly. It’s The Monks turn to nod. The silence between them remains tense. They're sizing one another up, they should be enemies, but for some reason The Monk saved Squirrel. Until he knows why and what The Monk is planning he won’t pass judgment. This is what he wanted after all. He’d uttered the words, “All Fey are brothers, even the lost.” He had meant it, desperation had made him say it, and hope encouraged it now. 

“Why did you save him?” He lets his eyes rest on the softly snoring boy. 

“I don’t hurt children.” And here they go again, he’s ready to have the same argument as before, but then The Monk continues. “Your words…. They made me think more deeply. You were right.” The Monk takes a breath, closes his eyes, he exhales a shaky breath. “ While I did not actively commit that evil, I stood by while others claiming to do good, claiming to do God’s work, did so. That is a worse evil, is it not? To stand by and allow the slaughter of innocents.” Gawain nods, then decides the gravity of the words demand speech. 

“It is. And yet, you now recognize it. That is why you saved the boy at risk to your own health?” He gestures at the bandages, raises an eyebrow. 

“Yes. The boy is brave, but he acts without forethought.”

“He does. Still it is a strength that will serve him well.” 

“If he doesn’t get himself killed. This is the second time I’ve come across him. Anyone else would have slaughtered him.” 

“Second?!” Gawain says, panic rising in his chest. 

“He did not tell you?” 

“No.” His voice is harsh enough to cause Percival to stir. Something shifts on The Monks face, the firelight nearly gone. Shame, Gawain's mind supplies. 

“I used him as… bait, to draw in lost Fey.” The Monk doesn’t meet his eyes, staring past him. 

“Did you intend to do it again?” He forces himself to remain calm, not to act on his anger.

“No. I intended to leave him with his people and disappear.” He catches the ferocity in The Monk's eyes. 

“I do not harbor any love for you Monk. But you killed many of your own to protect him. This I saw with my own eyes. You are Fey kind, from a race near extinction, and a skilled fighter. We could use you on our side.” He whispers the words. It’s a peace offering. When The Monk does not answer he presses on, choosing his words carefully.  
“I cannot say for certainty what our council will choose to do with you. They may wish you dead, but The Hidden led me to you today. I can’t ignore that, nor can I ignore that you saved him from the Kitchens. for that I Thank you. However, I cannot forget what you have done, your actions up to this point.” The Monk shifts uncomfortably. Gawain recognizes that his tone is sharp and his words harsh. He forces himself to soften them a little.  
“But, that's not to say, I won’t forgive you.” The Monk goes still. 

“You. What?” There is shock on the shadowed face.

“I forgive you.” He says softly, and it loosens his core a little. 

“ I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” It’s a whisper. 

“It is not for you alone, I speak this. Hatred rots from the inside. I forgive you for myself first and for you second. Everyone deserves a chance, an opportunity to change. I will offer this to you only once." The hardness returns to his voice. This is not a threat but a promise, "Return to the Fey camp with Percival and I. Face the Fey council and whatever punishment they deem fit. If they choose death for you, then die knowing you have done one good thing with your life. You saved one who is innocent. IF they let you live, commit your life to the cause of your kin. Use your skills to save the Fey.” Gawain lets his words hang in the silence and dark between them. It is a long time before the man across from him speaks. Gawain thinks if they weren’t both so exhausted they would not be speaking. As it was, Gawain was having trouble saying what he was and not killing the other man. But the Hidden had spoken to him on his journey and he would listen to them. Finally the silence breaks. 

+++LANCELOT+++

“I am a demon, I deserve no forgiveness for the sins and atrocities I have committed. And yet, I… I wish to be forgiven. I will come willingly and face my fate, whatever it may be.” He keeps his voice level, but the darkness around him is closing in. He fights back the urge to sob, swallows down the tightness of his throat. He doe's not know what is right and wrong anymore. Only that he isn't certain he can follow a God who would condemn even children to death, who would burn the living to death, who would allow his people to cause so much pain and destruction.

He knows he shouldn’t have spoken the words, but he has determined himself to be truthful to these two, in every matter. He wishes to earn their forgiveness, perhaps their trust. He is confused, conflicted and guilt weighs on him like shackles. He has done nothing so far to earn the Green Knights forgiveness and yet the man has offered it unprompted and unearned. He says it’s for his own good, his own heart. It makes his insides twist, completely at odds with everything that Father Carden had taught him, beat into him.

“If you want deliverance from your sin’s Ash Man then you must allow yourself to be redeemed.” He swallows again. Again the words seem at odds with what he was taught, but not completely with what he read. They nearly catch him by surprise, much to close to The Holy Word than he was told possible by the Fey. 

“Redemption is earned.” Lancelot nearly sobs back, through grit teeth. 

“Grace is not, nor is Mercy. I give both with my forgiveness. I give them freely. If you seek redemption, begin by seeking forgiveness from the others. Start with yourself. I can feel your guilt from here. If you did not feel it you would not have saved Squirrel. Give freely to those who can give nothing back, help the helpless, the meek, the innocent.” Gawain tapers off, across from him. He speaks the words with such conviction Lancelot is stunned. They are words he had heard and read in passing. Words the paladins had not focused on, but that they should have. He knows this is true, somewhere in the twisting and turning of his stomach and heart. His mind is a mess, still he knows saving the boy was right. Gawain’s words offer comfort. It is an invitation. He swallows and nods. The scent of the other is proof enough of his honesty. It’s not a secret that Lancelot will give up just yet, but for now he trusts that the other man means no harm to him in this moment. He smells of earth and light, a combination he know means truth. 

“I will try.” His voice is unsteady. 

“That is all we can do. From here on,” The Green Knight starts and Lancelot renews eye contact with him, “ You have a fresh beginning with me. I cannot guarantee that the anger of the past will not bleed through. You have a long way to go in restoring your honor, and earning my trust.” The Knight stands and makes his way around the bed of coals. He kneels beside Lancelot who does his best not to flinch, or shy away, or move to kill the other man. The Green Knight holds out his hand,

“I am Gawain.” Lancelot looks to his hand and back to his face. He bites at the inside of his cheek, clenching his jaw. He shakes the others hand and whispers, 

“Lancelot. My name is Lancelot.” Gawain claps his non bandaged shoulder and then moves behind him. He goes deathly still as he feels the shift of air behind him. He glances to his left as the-- as Gawain sits on the other side of Percival, hand reaching out to stroke through his hair. He watches the gesture, it’s soft.

“You should rest Lancelot.” 

“I have a concussion.” The Knight eyes him then nods. 

“You can still rest your body.” Lancelot nods, but doesn’t lay back. Instead he relaxes his muscles and reaches for the clean shirt beside him. He’s exhausted and needs to do something to stay awake. He doesn’t feel up to speaking, the urge having left him. He feels too vulnerable under the hazel eyes of the Green Knight. He tugs the shirt on with a grimace, suppresses the groan threatening to leave him as his muscles protest the movement. He looks at his dirty shirt, It’s his only spare. So he sets to the quiet work of darning it. He can feel the other one watching him but doesn’t meet his eyes as he deftly weaves the needle through the fabric. He can smell the surprise coming from the other one, lemon and eucalyptus. Absently he wrinkles his nose. 

Humans smell of industry. Stale sweat, leather, iron, fire, death. They don’t smell of earth in the same way as the Fey. It's a notable difference. Of course the Fey can smell of these things too, but it’s always much more subtle, the scents of earth nearly overwhelming. He can only assume it’s from the closeness of the Fey to their earthly roots. He shakes his head, the more he lingers on this knowledge the more the conflict in his chest grows. He knows if he is going to change courses and follow the path Gawain is sure to lead him down then he will need to accept the truth of what he is and embrace it. Right now it is too much. He needs rest, proper rest, before he tackles this. 

He turns his attention back to his shirt. He can’t find any more holes so he folds it up. It will need washing, but he isn’t going to do it now. He clenches his jaw hard before the offer can slip from his mouth. He had barely thought about it. He should offer to fix the Gawain’s shirt as well, or to wash his own and let the man use it. His own is basically rags after being stabbed and tortured. He swallows, and instead holds the needle and thread out in a silent offer. He assumes the man knows how to darn his own clothing. Hesitantly the Green Knight takes the offered items and pulls his own shirt over his head in understanding. He tries to work in the dark and then stops. 

“You can see better in the dark than I can.” It's not an accusation, the tone is to flat for that. It is a statement of fact. 

“I don’t know why.” He says quickly, defensively. “ I don’t know enough to know you couldn’t.” He stops himself saying more. Swallows. 

“ I don’t know enough about you or the Ash Folk to answer that either.” Gawain says equally unsure. Tense silence passes between them, and finally with nothing else to do and desperate for a task, Lancelot holds out his hand. 

“I’ll do it, and when I’m through we should start out again. I think it wise to put as much distance between us and them as possible before they come searching.” 

“I think that a wise decision.” The other says and hands over his shirt with the needle and thread. It doesn’t match but it’s better than a shirt full of holes. 

+++PERCAVIL+++

He wakes to Lancelot shaking his shoulder. Instinctively he lashes out and the man falls back on his heels to give him space. 

“Percival. Stop.” He hears his name and knows the voice. He sighs and rubs his eyes. 

“Sorry, Lancelot. I panicked. It’s dark.” He looks around but he can’t see anything so he stops trying. 

“I know. It’s okay. We need to get moving.” He turns his head in the direction of The Monks voice. He reaches out with the man's cloak to return it to him. It's warm but it isn’t his. 

“No. It’s cold. You wear it. Your people will have my head if you're sick when we get back. If they don’t already want it.” The others voice sounds strained in the darkness but he is grateful and pulls it back on. It's too big so he folds it in half and pulls it tight. 

“Thank you.” He is quiet in the dark. Not awake enough to think or to move. He stands there dumbly as he hears the other move away. He turns slowly listening, trying to hear where the other is.  
“Lancelot!” He calls out, panic rising in his chest. It’s too quiet. Too dark. 

“I'm here.” He feels a hand on his back. 

“Make some bloody noise would you. I can’t see a damn thing.” 

“Again with the language Percival. Is it necessary?” The hand on his back moves to his shoulder and he allows The Monk to lead him towards where he thinks he hears Goliath. 

“It’s Squirrel. I told you already. I don’t like being called by my name. And I’ll talk however I want. Only Nimue and Gawain can tell me otherwise. Okay!” The hand on his shoulder disappears and the panic starts worming it’s way back. There is only a sliver of moonlight tonight. 

“Is that so? Come up. And as I said before I won’t call you by the name of an animal.” He gropes in the dark in front of him for the hand he thinks is there. It catches his like Lancelot can see it, and he follows the tug. “Yes it is.” He says loudly as he crawls up on Goliaths back. 

“Lancelot is right, Percival. Besides, Knights are meant to be looked up to. Mind your language it impacts your reputation. There is a time and a place for your language.” 

“GAWAIN! YOU'RE ALIVE!” And the dam inside him breaks he sobs and whirls his head around in the dark for the knight.  
“Stop moving, you'll knock us off Goliath.” Lancelot's arms grip his waist tighter. He stops moving but his mouth doesn’t.

“I thought you were dead! You’re Alive! HOW? And your legs, I thought you couldn’t walk?!? How are you here!?!” 

“Slow down, Give me a chance to speak.” He knows that tone. Sharp and commanding. 

“Yes sir.” He goes still in front of Lancelot and can hear that the horses have begun moving. 

“It’s a short story, and when I am done I want to hear yours.” With that Squirrel sat still and listened, tapping his fingers on the saddle horn, as The Green Knight began his story beside him and The Weeping Monk. He doesn’t know why they haven’t tried to kill one another, but for now he doesn’t question it. He lets the voice of his friend and the steady rhythm of Lancelot's breathing keep his fears at bay. He closes his eyes against the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think Percival is very brave and strong but he's also a child who has witnessed to much. That said, I've written him as being afraid of being alone. Its not the dark or the quiet, but the inference that he has no one. 
> 
> I think Gawain believe in the goodness of people and is patient, and fiercely loyal. But I think he also sees the good and the potential in people. This makes him tricky for me, because he isn't a saint. So if I write him to saint like please say something. I think he does get angry but tries not to act on it unless their is no other course, or it is a lot of anger. 
> 
> Lancelot, is an adventure. I have so much I want to do with his character and I don't think it will get all accomplished in this.... maybe it will if it ends up as long as I want. The main thing I want to say is that I think he is capable of of making decisions about his survival. I've read a lot of fics, where in because of his sudden independence and autonomy, Lancelot subverts his person to another; which is great and wonderful take that I do enjoy, but I think personally, that he has struggled to survive for so long that it is now his driving force. So, I'll be writing him as capable of making decisions to keep himself and the others alive. And I will write him as capable of making decisions on his own, but the exception to this is when those decisions are about: Morals or Ethics (he gets hung up on the religious/spiritual conflict in his head), interaction with others in vulnerable situations. It's one thing to offer to mend a shirt, another entirely to ask someone to trust him to watch over them while they sleep. I hope that makes sense. of course, I also know that he has taken orders for so long that the loss of someone taking those decisions from him will be hard so Percival and Gawain will be there to encourage him to make those decisions, but wont take that ability away from him. 
> 
> Thanks for reading my little rant.


	3. Storytelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain and Percival Exchange stories. Lancelot chimes in with some additional information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! 
> 
> So, I rewrote the tags to be clearer. Anyways, I wanted to let you know, I will tackle everything as realistically as possible in terms of the darker aspects of this fic. I will likely also romanticize a lot of the good things. 
> 
> I also want to say that just because I'm writing characters doing something, rather graphically, in later chapters does not mean that I in any way condone, approve of, or enjoy those things. I respect that they happen in this world. I will treat them accordingly.   
> THAT SAID: PLEASE READ ALL THE TAGS. I will try to give CW's in the future chapters. 
> 
> ENJOY!

Percival leans back against Lancelot keeping him upright while he listens to Gawain speak in the darkness. The heat and weight are a comfort in the endless darkness. They come from a man he isn’t sure he can trust but the proximity and voice of the one he can, settles him. He listens to Gawains’ voice, calm, close, reassuring. It doesn’t waver. It’s steady even as the horses jostle them down the narrow path. He doesn’t know if they're going in the right direction but he trusts Gawain to take them where they need to go. And though he doesn't know how Lancelot did it, he'd found Fey village after Fey village. If anyone could get him home it was these two 

“I remember being pulled out of the tent. It was excrutiatingly painful. I couldn't feel my legs and being dragged felt like being stabbed all over again. I remember darkness flooding my vision being pulled into a bright tent and then I collapsed. I think I died, or at the very least came close to it." He doesn't want to think about that. Gawain dead. It twists his stomach up and he grimaces. He listens as Gawain takes a breath and continues. "When I woke up I was covered in soil and plants, The Hidden were speaking to me, but I was too dazed to hear them. You, Percival were my first concern. I went looking for you and that's when I noticed the men in black slain by Lancelot. I heard the Hidden clearly then and they told me to follow the tracks. That I would find you if I did. They even covered over our tracks once I set out to find you.”    
  
Before he can speak he hears Lancelot's voice, low and raspy. He wonders if the man has broken ribs.    
  
“There was a wave of magick just before I went to get Percival. It was powerful, unlike anything I’ve felt since I was taken from my home. Perhaps that was when you were saved?”    
  
“That’s the most likely scenario. They told me to give you a chance, Lancelot. I am being obedient.” and Gawains voice is hard when he says it. Like he doesn't want to admit to it. Squerril is startled by it. He isn't sure hes ever heard this tone before.    
  
“Oh. That's why you two aren't killing each other?” he says before he can think better of it, unsettled by the Green Knights previous tone. But now that the connection has formed in his mind he relaxes a little. If The Hidden told Gawain to do something then he would do it.    
  
“And he saved your life.” Gawain laughs hesitantly little more than a huff. 

  
“That’s good. I was afraid I’d have to fight you Green Knight.”   
  
“Oh? And why is that?” Genuine surprise coats the question.    
  
“You said it yourself. He saved my life. You knighted me in that god's awful bloody tent. That means I’m a knight too, and it means that since he saved my life I owe him a life debt now and I wasn’t going to dishonour such things.”    
  
“Percival. You owe me no such thing.” Lancelot's stern interruption catches him off guard.    
  
“You might not think so you idiot, but I do! And you can’t tell me what I do and don’t owe. SO, I’m glad that I don’t have to fight you Gawain. Do you trust him?”   
  
“Lancelot?”    
  
“Yeah.”    
  
“I wouldn’t let you ride with him if I thought you were in danger.” What kind of answer is that? Adults talk in far to many riddles. He assumes it's a yes. Like 'I trust him a little' and moves on.    
  
“What else happened?”    
  
“Nothing… well my skin looks greenish in the sunlight but I think that will go away. I hope.” Gawain sounds confused and Percival laughs.    
  
“Green?” The grin on his face hurts his bruises but he can't help it as he laughs.   
  
“Yes…” 

“Perhaps an after effect of The Hiddens touch?” Lancelot subdued voice supplies, behind him.    
  
“Perhaps.”Gawain agrees. He can’t make out much in the dark. But he thinks that was a good exchange. It wasn't hostile.    
  
“And you Percival, tell me what happened after they took you. Be honest.” Gawain sounds serious and grave. He swallows, a slight tremble settles in his voice as he begins.    
  
“I was terrified. But I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid I would tell them things they shouldn’t know. So I talked and swore and cursed and insulted. Because then I knew what I was saying. Ya know? Like if I'm calling him a bloody idiot I’m not talking about Nimue. They took me to some guy with a white beard and Lancelot and he told them to take me back to the kitchen where you were and to cut out my tongue. But Lancelot spoke up. Said ‘He’s only a boy.’” He tries and fails to mimic Lancelot's voice and gets a chuckle from behind him.

“Then the man slapped him, I saw it before they put me in the tent.” He notices the sharp intake of breath behind him and pushes on, unsure what it meant. 

“That confused me. Why wouldn't you fight back? But I had other things to focus on like getting loose when they tried to tie me up. I failed though. And then the blind one, that sewed his eyes shut, he came in after it got dark outside and he was about to take my tongue when Lancelot came in and slit his throat. Then he cut me loose and hauled me out of the tent. A little rough, but my heart was beating so hard I barely noticed. But then those guys in black, the… the Trinity Guard, the ugly one called them, attacked and Lancelot told me to hide and then he did some really amazing foot work and swordfighting. You have to teach me how! And killed some but there were way more of them. I thought he was going to die so I threw a rock and was going to fight back and then he got backup and killed the rest. Then the ugly one ran away so fast. Like a dog cowering with its tail between its legs. I thought he was going to shit himself. And then Lancelot pulled me up on Goliath and we ran. But then you found us, thank The Hidden.” He’s breathing hard at the memory, the words spilling from his lips so fast that at times it seemed like the words were all blended together.    
  
“That’s quite the story Percival. I’m glad you’re safe. You did a very good job of being brave. I’m proud of you.” He preens, sitting up straighter, grinning and pulling his fist down in victory. He accidently elbows Lancelot behind him. The man lets out a pained wheeze and when he regains his breath a moment later a broken,    
  
“Watch it Percival. I broke a rib.”    
  
“Only one?” Gawain beats him to the question.    
  
“A few.”    
  
“A few?” He questions in tandem with Gawain and they laugh but then fall serious waiting for The Monks answer.    
  
“To many, five fractured on the right, three spread across the left.”    
  
“Are you in pain?” Gawain asks suddenly, Percival notes the concern in his voice.    
  
“Some, it’s better after the herbs we put on the wounds.” 

Gawain comes to a stop beside them and He feels Lancelot pull on the reins in front of him.    
  
“Percival, do you know what Feverfew and White Willow look like?”    
  
“Yes!” He responds eagerly, he wants to help his new friend.    
  
“Go on, find some, and if you find more eucalyptus and or lavender bring it back. 10 minutes.” He dismounts Goliath with a jump and stops, 

“I don’t have light.” He chokes out.

“A light is a dangerous Percival, You will need to use your other senses. We will be right here.”    
  
He nods in the darkness, Gawain's voice a comfort. He hums to himself as he searches, a song his mother used to sing.    
  
+++GAWAIN +++   
  
Gawain opens his mouth to speak but the Monk beats him to it.    
  
“This is unnecessary, the boy is terrified of being alone.” His voice is a sliver in the night.   
  
“I wonder why?” Gawain bites out and then bites his tongue that was hardly called for. He shakes his head and refuses to acknowledge that his words might sting. The Monk was partially if not wholly responsible for helping to destroy everything Percival held dear.   
  
“How bad is it really?” The tenseness in his voice is painful even to his own ears.    
  
“I’m not dying," " _yet'_ Gawain's mind supplies. He had seen the bruises forming in the firelight. He would be surprised if there wasn't internal damage. "But I feel like death. My ribs are all that’s broken. You know about the concussion. Cuts and bruises, and a lot of blood loss. I just need rest, and a good meal. Both can wait.” The Monk sounds like a soldier at this moment. Taking stock and reporting almost mindlessly. His voice is hollow in the night. Gawain can't help but note the way he sounds like a soldier, ready to press on to accomplish whatever his task is. He just hopes that if there are internal damages, they maintain themselves until they return to camp. He doubts the three of them combined have the necessary skills to tend to them.    
  
“You look, well on your way." The words come with a shiver, he knows they sound ominous. "When he gets back chew the bark. It will ---” 

“Reduce the inflammation and pain which will speed the healing process. I’m not a fool, Gawain. I have an understanding of medicine. My mother was a healer.” Regret, like the tar of night around them, wove like tendrils of smoke through the brilliant rage of his words. 

  
“Your mother was a healer and yet you allowed them to turn you into a murderer?” The words taste of bile and ash and stick in his throat. Shock rattles his bones, rings in his ears. The Monk doesn’t answer. Gawain takes a deep breath and settles himself. He knows he can't react on instinct with The Monk. He needs to treat him the way he does the other fey of his camp.    
  
“I did what I must to survive.” It’s barely a whisper between the two of them. Whispering, it seemed, was how Lancelot preferred to converse about these matters. Gawain bites back his immediate response, Percival's words lingering in his mind, the sharp intake of Lancelot's breath echoing in the dark.  _ “Then the man slapped him, I saw it before they put me in the tent. That confused me. Why wouldn't you fight back?" _

He recognizes it for what it is and asks two questions:

"How old were you when they took you? And how old are you now?" 

He strains his hearing blocking out the crickets and the owls, the chattering of annoyed chipmunks and waits for the answer to reach him. 

"I was eight. I am twenty seven now." Their knees bump as Lancelot shifts uncomfortable and their horses bring them together in the dark. The Monk had been abused. He forced himself not to think of the terrible things that had been done to him. He couldn't possibly know, but he could guess and it twisted up his insides. He had been a child. Despite himself compassion slithered up his throat and he spoke. 

“You should know you will likely be asked to recall your story to the council.” He knows he shouldn’t give The Monk an edge but he can't not give him this warning. Pasts had a tendency of being painful and it would do The Monk good to be prepared.    
  
“Thank you for the forewarning.” The disembodied voice responds earnestly.    
  
They waited in silence for Squirrel to return. Anything else he had wanted to say no longer important without the ability to gauge the others' response. Percival rejoined them, much more noisily than necessary. With a huff he dismounts to separate the supplies Percival had found. More than he had anticipated, less than would have been beneficial.    
  
“Give him the bark, and let's move again. Percival, if it is at all possible, try to get some sleep while we go.” The boy scrambles to do as he's told and Gawain boosts him up into the saddle. 

They ride at a slow trot, just above a walk. A faster gait to much of a risk for worsening The Monks wounds. They need to sleep tonight. Gawain will push them as hard as he can through the day. That should put them far enough away, especially if they cut into the woods, to avoid being found. Then they will rest, recuperate some of their strength and decide the best method for finding the Fey. A thought occurs to him: 

"Did they ever call you by your name? Or were you simply always the Weeping Monk?"

Lancelot sighs audibly. 

" I was forbidden from even uttering it. Today was the first time I've said it allowed since…. They had many names for me, none my own…." The Monk let's his sentence trail off and Gawain understands. He smiles to himself in the dark. Calling The Monk Lancelot will serve as a constant reminder of him choosing a new life. He can use that, spin it to his needs when he brings The Monk before the council. It won't be The Weeping Monk, Murderer of Fey kind, it will be as Lancelot of the Ash Folk. He thinks that alone will increase the slim chances of his survival. He doesn't know what The Hidden have in store for this man, but they told him to keep him alive. It was a task he wasn't happy about, but one he would carry honorably none-the-less. 

When Squirrel has fallen asleep Gawain falls silent, thinking deeply about everything that had been happening before he left, and wondering about what he would find when they returned.    
  
The last he knew his people were in Gramaire, that's where he should return and yet, something inside him tells him that its the wrong way. He doesn’t know why but perhaps The Monk does. He doesn’t want to ask and grinds his teeth. He bristles at the idea that another, someone who until recently was a complete outsider, might know more about his people's current situation than he does.


	4. Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot succumbs to his injuries. Gawain doesn't panic, and tries to stay out of his head. Percival is very helpful and dealing with emotions that are very complex for an 11 year old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the tags, last update and it did weird things, sorry about that. 
> 
> Anyways here's an update. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Just a reminder that this is un betad so if there are any egregious errors that need fixed let me know! I think I caught most of them.

+++LANCELOT+++   
  
The silence is pleasant to his ears. He isn’t a stranger to company, one is never truly alone in the paladin camps. What he isn’t familiar with is people actively including him in discussion, asking him questions that they expect an answer to, or feeling like he has any right to add to the conversation. Certainly he had with the Paladins, with Father Carden, but the words had always been few and spoken with hesitation and much forethought. He had time when answering those questions. Hesitation here, however, might construe distrust and misunderstanding. 

He chews on the bark, it’s bitter and woody in his mouth and tastes like the bark it is. He swallows and can feel the effects. He lets out a low breath as silent as he can. Grits his teeth against the residual pain. Truly he is grateful for the slight relief. He pushes away the guilt that comes with it. He knows he made the correct decision. Knows it more certainly than anything else at this moment. He clings to it like a lifeline. He doesn’t question why he had chosen to do what he felt was right. He knows that is a path he is to exhausted to battle his way through.

He acknowledges that perhaps Gawain taunting him was the cause. "If this is where you belong then tell them." No one aside from Father Carden had known his secret, Abbot Wicklow had guessed and hit the mark. Disgust had radiated from the man, more potent than his fear. The others never would have accepted him. Not that they had. They feared him, obeyed his orders because of their terror. He was no more a paladin than he was a man-blood. And yet he felt the need, like an itch he couldn't scratch clawing at him, to punish himself for the relief and exhilaration he felt at the idea of fitting in somewhere.

He is not so naïve as to assume the others will be so quick to attach themselves to him as Squirrel seems to be, or to forgive as Green Knight has. But he hope's, deep down, and tries to keep that flame from going out. He acknowledges that it may be years upon years of hard work. He had killed so many mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters. Still years of conditioning told him he needed to lash the evil of desire from himself. Be cleansed through pain, as he had been taught. Not for cleansing the earth, though his mind recognizes it as murder, distantly, and he knows he will wrestle with that the rest of his life; but instead for the hope of a new future. Restoration? Redemption? He is far too distracted with fighting back the urge to vomit to know what word he means. There is no number of good deeds, hail Mary's, or lashings that will undo his sin. There is a numbness settling in him, one he has often felt. The gravity of his offenses dragging him under the surface of the water, into atramentous depths. 

The questions were unexpected and set him on edge. He grit his teeth and actively forced himself not to think of the memories they forced him to recall. It's a losing battle; but as the silence settles between The Green Knight and himself and the dark dims his vision he has nothing save the weight of Percival in front him, pressing aggravatingly against his wounds and the distant clip clop of horse hooves on loose stone to ground him.

He focuses on trying to understand Gawain's motivations, rather than dwell in the depths of his mind. He is too laden with weariness to do either with any amount of clarity or usefulness. Still he tries to focus on the words, the story of his life that he will share with the Fey council and their queen when she arrives. Speaking himself blue in the face will neither excuse him nor will it free him. Perhaps, however, they can earn him the chance to prove his change of heart. The one he still isn't certain of. Or so he tells himself instantly to keep the flicker of hope in check. But he knows the truth. Knows that some of the strife he feels in himself is from the lies he had told Father Carden. How many children had he let escape, how many Fey had he sensed and ignored? It had always been on days when he had doubted the cause, God, when he remembered who he was, where he came from, the blood that ran through his veins and what his purpose should have been had he grown up with his parents. Always on the days where the hatred he buried beneath scripture and flogging came to the surface and threatened to devour him alive. How many times had he watched a paladin kill and resisted the urge to run him through and instead knelt at Father Carden's feet?

He forces himself to sit up straighter. Enervation is pulling at his limbs. They hang heavy and useless from his body. His mind is likewise slow, his thoughts sluggish as he combats the need to sleep. They can’t afford to stop and sleeping with a concussion is more danger than it is worth. The nausea he had kept at bay so far sneaks up on him, increased by the whispers of his mind The pain in his stomach and back makes itself known again, despite the bark and salve.The Rhythmic Clip Clop of hooves is more akin to a war drum in his ears while he wars within himself/ Physically. Mentally. Distantly he wonders if he will die of wounds he can't see, he can treat flesh but he can't fix his insides. When he comes too he doesn't remember causing Goliath to stop, only a half aborted,

"Gawain,”

cut off by violent retching and a too firm hand fisted in his shirt to keep him upright in the saddle. The ties and clasps catch at his throat and he thinks he may suffocate. In an instant there is an arm around him and the pressure of the clasps on his throat is gone as blood, bile, bark and their meager supper cause him to double over once more. He can smell nothing more than his own mess. He hears voices too violent in his head, shuffling and shifting at atrocious speed around him and notes absently that Percival is not in front of him anymore. He tries to reach out a hand but his muscles betray him. He groans, tongue refusing to function and slumps backwards as his muscles further reject his commands. He collides with a solid chest and gasps in pain. He stops fighting when strong arms circle his chest and hot breath brushes his ear. He has no idea what is said to him as he plummets into the abyss. 

++++GAWAIN++++   
  
Every hope he had of Lancelot making it back to the Fey camp alive disappeared with the monks retching. He had no idea how bad the injuries inside were or if they were even the cause of his sudden sickness. Gawain wouldn’t put it past battlefield fatigue to do this to a man, but the black and blue spotting on his torso were more indicative of reality. He held the other close to his chest. He turned to a frantic Percival. The boy looked stricken, concern etched in every crease of his face and bob of his little throat.    
  
“I need you to stay calm. He is going to be fine, but we need to get somewhere to rest so I can look at his injuries when the sun comes up. Can you do that?” He is lying through his teeth and he knows it. But Percival does as he is instructed. Gawain can hear his breathing steady and knows that while Percival is still a child, that using his commander's voice might be the only way to keep him focused on their current situation.    
  
“What can I do?” His voice comes shaken but strong from Gawain's left.    
“Hand me your reigns.”   
  
He attaches them awkwardly to Goliath's saddle. They'd barely managed to keep Lancelot on his horse and change places in the process. Gawain is not completely certain where he is. Only that they had gone east. Unfortunately being stabbed, paralyzed, and tortured are enough to do that even to the best of men. He doesn’t know where they are in relation to Gramaire. He knows in his core something had happened, something important but he had been in the middle of being tortured and then dead. He had no idea what had happened in that time, nor did the boy riding to his left. He needs sunlight and some kind of landmark to get his bearings and then he will scout the keep. If his people are still there, he will convince them to treat Lancelot first, if for no other reason than to collect information from him, and see him to trial for his crimes second. If they are not, he knows of a village half a day's ride beyond where there is a woman physician who is friendly to the Fey. One of their healers had saved her child and since then she had been friendly to his people. 

The dead weight of Lancelot's raggedly breathing body shifts to the side in front of him; and if it weren’t for his broken ribs he might lay him over the saddle and tie him still and ride with Percival. As it is he tightens his hold and grits his teeth. His mind is a twisting maze of confusion, to many emotions vying for his attention. His stomach is in knots with it. Willing his voice steady he speaks, breaking the tension of silence around them.    
  
“Percival, you're being awfully quiet.” 

“I was trying to think of something that would help.”    
  
He hesitates before asking the next question. He does not want the boy to feel as though he has failed, or as though he isn’t being helpful or brave.    
  
“Do you remember where the camp was in relation to Gramaire?”    
  
“No I was following you on the rescue mission and I couldn’t even see it the way he took us back to the bloody idiots.”    
  
“ Unfortunate. Thank you Percival.” It had been a long shot but he had hoped. “You're good at climbing trees aren't you?”    
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Then first thing in the morning you’ll climb the tallest tree we can find and point out some landmarks.” 

“I can do that.” 

\--------------

The morning light of dawn brings with it the knowledge that the road they were on had turned northerly in the night. This, though an added challenge is not the most pressing information on his mind. Lancelot is feverish and dripping with sweat even in the cool air of predawn. His skin is ashen and his lips are drawn. He’s unconscious and his breathing is rapid and shallow when he feels for it. He presses his fingers to the pulse point of Lancelot's neck and finds that his pulse is thready and weak, far too weak. He remains calm in the face of death, the Widow is not a stranger to him, and when she comes he will not try and stop her. It is a while before the dawn is bright enough to see any helpful distance. And longer still before they find a suitable tree to climb.    
  
“Percival! Up the tree quickly! Tell me what you see.” 

He watches as Squirrel scales the tree with all the speed and skill of his name sake. He tells himself the only reason he cares what happens to the unresponsive man in his arms is that The Hidden demanded he take him to Nimue and the knowledge that they saved his life to assign him the task. Likely the first of many, if he could trust his gut. He didn’t understand why they wanted him alive or why they wanted him to be seen by Nimue. It has nothing to do with the fact that the man is gorgeous and a talented fighter. Nothing to do with Gawain's righteous anger at his never having had the opportunity for a life, from what he can surmise. Gawain is a soldier and the man pressed against his chest, while a kinsman is also an enemy. All he wants to know before he dies is if he had ever had a choice, why he had chosen to stay when he could have cut down the paladins and fled.    
  
“Green Knight! I see smoke in the direction we came from. The camp is still burning. There is a city but I can’t make out much. There is a chimney fire ahead of us.” Squirrel points in the direction and Gawain can barely make it out.    
  
“I don’t know how far it is. There's something in the trees over that way, it looks like a Fey signal but I can’t tell from here. The road goes straight as far as I can see.”    
  
He watches Squirrel make his way down the tree, quickly all speed and dexterity. Now isn’t the time to teach the boy; and yet, Gawain knows it may be the only chance he has to teach him anything, so he takes the time to ask as Percival mounts his horse.   
  
“What do you think we should do?”    
  
“I think we should go towards the village. We can go slow, scout it out and see if there are any Fey signals near it. Maybe they are friends.”    
  
He smiles, genuinely. This boy is something indeed. He will make a fine knight when he is older. Smart and resourceful if not a little brash and quick to action. He nudges Goliath in that direction. It would be prudent perhaps to rest the horses and attempt to see to the monks injuries himself, but the task of getting the other man off and back on the horse are daunting. Instead he presses them into a fast trot and hopes that he doesn’t worsen the wounds. He shouldn’t care if he lives or dies. But he does, and it isn’t helped by Percivals own confused concern.

++++Percival ++++

He scurries up another tree. Their closer to the village now and what he thought was a Fey talisman was in fact just that. It was one he knew. He grinned as he made his way down the tree.    
  
“I think we should still be careful but it was one of our symbols. The one that means safety.”    
  
Gawain nods at him and he grins wider. Maybe they will be okay. Cautiously they make their way into the village and Percival notices how Gawain relaxes, he looks less alarmed. Shoulders slumping, rigidity leaving his posture, jaw falling slack.    
  
“You know where we are?”    
  


“Aye.”    
  
Gawain leads them down a narrow alleyway and Squirrel stays close. He can feel the eyes of the townspeople on him and it unsettles him a touch. He knows that he looks like humans that Gawain does too and they had covered Lancelot to hide his face with his bloodstained cloak. He doesn't know where Gawain is taking them but he follows silent and alert. He behaves like the knight he wants to be. They reach a small house on the far edge of the village and Gawain dismounts. He steadies Lancelot's form over the neck of his horse, the man groans, pressing his eyes closed even harder. He looks like he might vomit again.    
  
“Hold him Percival.” He nudges his horse closer, still not sure he’s doing it right and holds onto the man's cloak and shirt tightly.    
  
Gawain approaches the door quickly with hopeful steps. He rapps on the door three times before it opens and an older looking woman peaks out the crack. Percival can’t see much with Gawain in the way and the conversation is whispered. He bites his lip and casts a fleeting glance around. There is a large outbuilding. Not a barn, the barn is to the left. The woman steps onto the porch fully, her hair is long, blond with streaks of grey. She’s plump but not overly so, motherly? Grandmotherly, he thinks. Her eyes are hazel. She looks at him and Lancelot and then back to Gawain who is speaking as much with his hands as his mouth. She steps forward and embraces him and then gives a firm nod.    
  
When Gawain approaches Percival makes eye contact with him.    
  
“Who is she?”    
  
“A friend. A healer. Her name is Bliant. Be polite. She has agreed to help Lancelot and let us stay for a time.” He straightens at the intensity of the The Green Knights voice and steady gaze. 

With that Gawain takes Goliath's reigns and leads them towards the large out building. It's a healers hut, he realizes as he and Gawain half carry half drag Lancelot to the nearest bed. Lancelot stirs, opens his eyes, closes them and moans. He swallows back instinctively. And Gawain is already searching for a bucket. He presses it into Lancelot's hands and Percival steps back to give them room. He doesn't know how to help. He thinks he should have spent more time with the healers. But he had been chasing foxes instead. ‘Of course’, he thought bitterly, ‘ this shouldn’t be happening.” 

He watches as Gawain helps a barely conscious Lancelot sit up so he doesn’t choke, and then rinses his mouth with water from the skin. Lancelot has fallen quiet. His breathing fast and shallows, his skin sickly pale and wet like the moon reflecting on water. Bliant, enters then, dressed with her hair drawn up. It makes her look far more severe than she had before. She approaches the bed.    
  
“Boy go and tend your horses. Put them in the stable and see to it they get fed and watered.”    
“No, I want to stay! I Want to help!” She looks at him then, the way his mother and Nimues had. And he swallows.    
“Can I come back?” He drops his voice, pleading.    
“Of course young one, I would not forbid you seeing your friend.” He looks at her then at Gawain who simply nods to the door. He obeys. Taking a few steps he stops.    
  
“He’s not my friend. But he saved my life.” He continues on, anxiety in his gut. He should not become attached to The Monk. He knows this, but then the same man who had killed all of those other Fey in the woods had saved him from being tortured. He didn’t understand. Lancelot had shared his name, had nearly died for him. He could have just given him back to the Trinity Guard.    
  
Angrily he grabs both sets of reigns and leads the horses to the barn. He hates that he can’t be with them. He wants to see what is happening. His movements are rough as he removes both horses' tack. With a huff he steps up on the stool to deal with their saddles knowing full well he probably can't lift them. 

  
“Want help?” He glances over his shoulder and sees a blond boy around Nimues age entering with a horse of his own.    
  
“If you don’t mind.” He agrees and moves to instead handle the bridles, and then to fill the water. He works quickly and in silence with the boy. He assumes it is one of Bliants sons.    
“I’m timothy.” the boy says, setting the saddles on the spare racks.    
  
“Squirrel.”    
  
“Odd name that. Are you Fey.”   
  
“Just a nickname my sister gave me for climbing trees.” He says keeping his eyes on the grain he is scooping out for all three of the horses. He knows they need brushed and properly tended. He had helped his father occasionally, and knows how. But he wants to check on Lancelot again. He ignores the second part of the question. Gawain might trust these people but he isn’t sure that he does. He isn’t sure he trusts anyone really. They keep disappearing. Not coming home. Dying. He trusts his bow. He trusts in his knife, but people? No he isn’t sure he should trust anyone. Even The Green Knight had died. He’d come back but he might not have. He ignores the way his chest tightens, and his throat aches. Ignoring the way Timothy is watching him inquisitive he manages out a squeaky, 

  
“I’ll be back to brush them down. I just want to check on my friend.” 

He knows Gawain probably won't be happy about this. He was supposed to tend the horses. Not feed them and come back. But he can use childhood naivety right? He isn’t actually an adult. He's just a kid, tagging along on an adventure that everyone said was too big for him. But he wanted to be useful, he wanted revenge, and now he was alone. He pushes open the door for the sick room and stands to the side watching. He doesn’t make a noise. 

Bliant is methodical as she washes Lancelot's clammy skin. She speaks as she goes. Percival stares at the floor. Lancelot is naked and very much not conscious. Similarly Gawain is helping to support Lancelot's weight without actually looking at the man. He perks his ears up and listens.    
  


“The good news is these injuries seem to be healing well. There's no sign of outward infection in the open wounds. When I’m finished bathing him, we will prepare a new cataplasm, heat it and apply it. That should help these to close the rest of the way. You said he has a concussion?”    
  
“Yes, or he was fairly certain of it, and I agree based on the bruising around his temple.”    
  
“This could be part of the nausea he is experiencing, though based on the tenderness of his abdomen and the deep bruising, I am concerned he is bleeding on the inside. He cannot travel anymore for a few weeks. Gawain. It will kill him. As it is he will struggle to survive. If the wounds continue to bleed openly inside he will bleed out. If they clot and those clots come loose inside it could kill him.” Percival feels the tears creeping up on him. He knows Lancelot got hurt because of him, that he chose to fight for him, but the knowledge that he might die because of him is too much. He is so tired. Tired of his friends, and his family dying, tired of the people that protect him dying. He is distressed beyond words. His voice fills his ears before he can think better of it and keep them inside. His chest heaving with the excursion of his outburst. 

  
“NO HE CAN'T DIE! HE CAN’T!” He roars and Gawain turns to him, eyes hard and ready to scold, he opens his mouth and Bliant speaks first. She doesn’t even look at him as she does so.    
  
“He will live, child, if he gets proper rest and care. He is here now and can receive those things. Do not fret over the life of your friend.” Her words steady him a little. They remind him of the mothers in the village, ready to comfort and to teach as much as scold. Her voice is soft in his ears and he wonders if he gave in and asked for a lullaby if she would sing him one. When he looks away from her he can see the disapproval in Gawain's features as he continues to steady Lancelot. Bliant shifts the bedding to cover Lancelot without breaking her focus on washing his face. 

"I told you he isn’t my friend. He murdered my friends. But he saved my life." He looks at Gawain and presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn't know how he should feel about anything and it leaves him feeling dazed and weary. His chest aches constantly. He moves further into the room on unsteady feet.    
  
He approaches the bed and wobbles a little as he stands at the foot. He watches the shallow rise and fall of his hero's chest. He looks to Gawain who can only offer him the embrace of a single arm while Bliant continues her minstrations. But it is all he needs. He doesn’t know the last time someone held him close like this. He buries his face in Gawain's shirt and ignores the smell. None of them have bathed or changed their clothes in some time. Gawain strokes his hair and he relaxes, lets the tears fall silently, occasionally peeking glimpses of the healer and the monk. Eventually Bliant asks him to go sit on the other bed because she needs the space. He agrees and watches in silence as she re-binds his back and chest with the new poultice. Gawain lays him back against the pillows, head propped up and a thin sheet pulled up to his chest. 

Bliants husband pops his head in, it's late in the evening. He announces supper is ready and Bliant ushers Gawain and Percival into the house.   
  


“Wait, someone should stay with him in case he wakes up. So he isn’t alone. So he knows where we are.” It’s garbled in his ears like he’s underwater. Gawain sighs beside him.    
  
“I'll stay.” He starts and turns to go back to the bed but Bliant stops him with a hand on his shoulder and promises to stay with The Monk until one of them can.    
  
“Arden, love, find them some clean clothing and send them to bathe. I’m sorry but the two of you smell like death. And I won’t have it here.”    
  
“Thank you, for everything Bliant, Arden.” He puts a heavy hand on Percivals shoulder and he knows he's meant to say the same.    
  
“Thank you very much.” 


	5. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes time to heal. Hidden in a small human village Gawain and Squirrel wait for Lancelot to heal enough to travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Enjoy! This was a fun section to write. The next chapter is still in the works. It's a touch more complex to write. 
> 
> Let me know if I've made any errors that take away from the reading. I think I've got them all ( 3 ish read throughs later) but I can't trust my own eyes!

++++GAWAIN++++

He stretches and his shoulders pop. He feels old, and well he is in his thirties and has been a soldier for more of his life than not. A Knight. He isn’t old by any means, but he has abused his body far past what he should have by now. His neck cracks as he turns to check on Percival asleep in one of the other sick beds. The child had been alternating between sleeping soundly and nights filled with nightmares. It worried him, since Squirrel seemed to refuse to open up about it. He knew the wonder that talking about what was troubling him could have, especially on one so young; and yet he did not feel as though he could demand the boy tell him what, at his core, frightened him so. The bruise on Squirrels eye is yellow brown now and it softens some of the tension thrumming in Gawain's veins to know that even if only for the moment, he is healthy and safe. 

His own skin is back to its normal tones, except when he touches anything natural, then it tinges green, just barely, but enough that he has caught it. He stands and stretches out his back, he is too old to sleep in chairs and yet that's where he keeps finding himself. There are plenty of sick beds in the hut, and yet he can't seem to sleep in them, so he sits vigil over Lancelot's prone form and inevitably falls asleep that way. It’s been four days since they arrived and six since Lancelot initially fell unconscious, give or take a day. It all blurs together and Gawain is fairly certain he slept through one of those.    
  
Bliant is quietly humming as she tends to Lancelot's injuries. Lancelot is awake, he notes and continues to stretch.    
  
“Green Knight” The voice is low and scratchy with disuse, impeded by the low oxygen from broken ribs. It sounds hoarser and raspier than it probably should. 

  
“Yes.” He yawns.   
  
“Where are we?” He notes the way Lancelot's posture is ramrod straight in the bed, the way his arms are drawn to his chest, hands resting in his lap as Bliant tends to his back. He is looking straight ahead barely blinking, nose flaring wide as he breathes. Gawain notes the rigid pull of his every visible muscle the way his jaw clenches muscle jumping at the motion. The way he is keenly tracking the movements of the woman behind him from the mirror on the wall. He thinks that the other should be foggy, but perhaps he has never been tended to in such a manner. The most likely culprit. Gawain realizes with a start that he is naked in a bed being prodded by a woman with no information as to how he got there. Gawain would be nervous too. Especially if he didn’t have a weapon, and Lancelot did not. He grins to himself and barely suppresses the laugh that bubbles in his chest. He clears it away with a false cough into his hand.    
  
“Stay calm, Monk. This is Bliant; healer of this village. You look like you're ready to jump out of your own skin.”   
  
“Where are my clothes.” It comes out through clenched teeth, a hiss in the comfortable morning light of the room. It catches in the monks hair highlighting the streaks of blond that blend in his dark curls. He notes that the man still has a fever, if the sheen on his brow is anything to go by, but he is awake and alert. These are all good signs. Lancelot swallows and Gawain watches the movement with fascination.    
  
“They’ve been laundered and you can have them back when Bliant says you can.” Gawain regrets putting it on the woman almost instantly but she is the physician and Gawain has the feeling that Lancelot, given the opportunity might just run as soon as he’s dressed. He looks like a bow string pulled too tight by a nervous marksman on their first hunt.    
  
He watches Lancelot let out a breath, low like a whistle. He turns cold blue eyes on Gawain. He realizes suddenly that he himself is shirtless. He doesn’t blush, he doesn’t feel vulnerable for it, nor does he feel shame. It takes Lancelot a moment to make up his mind about whatever it is he is going to say so Gawain walks over to the wash basin and splashes cold water on his face. Scrubs the sleep from his eyes, notes he needs a shave, and wipes it away while he waits.    
  
“Goliath?”    
  
“In the stable, fed and brushed.”    
  
“Where are we?”    
  
“You asked that before.”    
  
“You didn’t give a straight answer. What town?”    
  
“T— Is that really important?” He turns back around to face Lancelot and Bliant. She is wrapping fresh bandages around his shoulders. She stops,    
  
“I really do need you to lift your arms so I can wrap this properly.”    
  
Lancelot side eyes her and then looks to Gawain who just raises an eyebrow in what he hopes is a gesture that says,    
  
“She's the doctor better do what she says” kind of way. He seems to understand as he slowly raises his arms and allows her to manhandle him. Its painfully awkward to watch so 

Gawain pads barefoot to his bed and retrieves his new shirt. He pulls it and his socks and boots on just as the door to the hut swings open.    
  
“Arden close the door. I have a patient and it's cold.” Bliant’s voice is strict and firm, she hadn’t even turned her eyes away from her work. It leaves no room for argument and her husband does as he is bid. Gawain returns to the chair beside Lancelot's bed and Lancelot makes unwavering eye contact with him. Gawain chuckles, it’s almost adorable how uncomfortable The Weeping Monk is. If this were one of his men he would not take joy in his discomfort, but as it is, he can’t help but think that the mortification coloring his features is perhaps, at the least, a little deserved. If not very handsome on his cheeks. It makes the marks of his people stand out all the more and—   
  
“I just came to say breakfast is ready. And the bone broth you requested.”    
  
“Thank you Arden.” Bliant says with a kiss to his cheek. His hair is dark brown and run through with streaks of silver. He is the town's blacksmith and well muscled for his age. The healer turns her attention back to Lancelot who has not so subtly pulled the blankets higher around him. He looks like a drowned pup.    
  
“Lancelot is it?” Both men look to the physician, “ Do you feel up to trying to have some broth. It’s too soon yet to give you anything more solid than bread.”    
  
“Yes, Thank you.”  _ He has manners _ , Gawain thinks,  _ I wonder how far they stretch?  _   
  
“Good. Well I’ll bring you all some food and your clothes. You can dress but please don’t get out of bed other than necessary functions.” It was a tactful way of saying it but still Lancelot’s jaw clenches. With that Bliant and Arden leave the hut hand in hand.    
  
“She's right.” He starts, filling the tense silence of the room, “You were bleeding internally, could have died at any time despite her best efforts. She suggests not traveling for another week yet. Percival and I have done some scouting. It seems safe enough for the moment. I imagine that's why you wanted to know where exactly we are?”    
  


His voice has gone from lighthearted to serious. He is on guard, just slightly. He doesn’t think The Monk will hurt him or Percavil. Not right now, not while injured. Not after their conversation. That does not change the fact that this man is still someone who was their enemy. May still be both enemy and threat. He was after all the man that had carried him to his death, paralysed him with a stab wound, the mark of which was barely visible now.    
  
“Yes.” Lancelot doesn’t turn towards him and that's fine. He doesn’t want to shake their unsteady truce too much. The room falls silent again save for the soft breathing of Percival two beds over, and the light singing of morning doves outside the window. It’s almost peaceful. Enough that Gawain stands by the window and watches the trees, ears listening for movement in the room. Always on guard. 

Finally the quiet of the room weighs too heavy.

  
“I’ll wait till you're dressed to wake him.” Gawain says, not sure why he feels the need to make Lancelot feel more secure, safer in their environment. It should be okay for him to squirm in discomfort. He shakes his head as he acknowledges the clouds and the ache in his body. It looks like it will rain today. He wonders if perhaps, he had spoken for himself and not the other. What did he want? Did he want to be comrades with this man? Did he want to be friends? Brothers? Or did he want him dead, as the others surely would for all the things he has done to the fey? Surely he should. And yet, his own words echo in his ears. They really could use a fighter like The Monk if he truly has had a change of heart, maybe they can convince him to train the young soldiers. They aren't soldiers, they're a rebellion. A rebellion made of men too old to fight, and boys to young, and not enough in the middle. He looks to Percival, brave Percival with all his energy and fire, and too young by far to be in the situation he is in. Anger flares in his chest again. It’s all interwoven and inherently connected in his heart. It’s an ouroboros and it’s not circling him, it's eating him alive. 

Before the silence can stretch again, or he says something born of the fury he is battling back into its bottle to be handled later, Bliant and her husband return with food and drink for the three of them. He thanks them with a smile and a wave and even Lancelot utters his thanks. Gawain is nervous about staying as long as Bliant is suggesting. Fourteen days is a very long time to remain imobile. Logically he knows it's safer for them to stay hidden here than for the three of them to try and cover any ground. Beyond that he cannot fail at his task. That means that they must stay until Lancelot is given leave to travel, and even then they must be careful. Bliant lays Lancelot's clothes beside him and the man seems a little more at ease with the prospect of being dressed again.    
  
“I'll come back with lunch to check on you.” Bliant says casting them a pleasant smile and then she leaves to attend her own matters for the day.

Gawain does not turn his back. Not entirely. He’s certain even injured Lancelot could do him some serious injury. He keeps his body turned to the side, Lancelot in his peripheral vision and the dark haired man seems to notice. He too turns his back but not completely. Better to be seen naked than give a possible enemy and opening. In this they are agreed by unspoken knowledge. After the third time Lancelot stumbles and nearly falls Gawain sighs.    
  
“Do you want assistance?”

He doesn’t get a reply, just the tightening of Lancelot's jaw and a hesitant nod. So he walks over and as politely and platonically as possible helps him dress in his trousers. It’s not really all that difficult. Gawain had helped the man relieve himself a couple times, but he's pretty sure the Monk was too feverish and too high on poppy milk to recall it. He tells himself it’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his own men, and that's the truth. He has done as much before, and is certain will do as much again before his time comes.    
  
He lifts Lancelot's undershirt and bunches it, helps him get the sleeves on and pull it over his head. He hears the slight intake of a sharp breath, likely from jaring the younger man's ribs or perhaps from the catch of fresh skin pulling on itself. He steps back and lets Lancelot do up both sets of laces. He steps away and moves to wake Squirrel. The boy wakes with a moan and roles over.    
  
“Percival, you can’t sleep all day.”    
  
“Mm I. try.” Gawain isn't even sure what the boy is trying to say.    
  
“Percival, come on, it's time to eat.” He tries again. The boy just shrugs off his hand and sighs.    
  
“Percival get up or I’ll dump cold water on you.”    
  
“Ass.” The boy mumbles at him pushing himself up and rubbing at his eyes. He looks blankly around the room before focusing on Gawain.    
  
“How’s Lancelot?” The words are jumbled in a yawn that threatens to split the boy's skull in half. 

  
“Awake enough to have breakfast with us.” His lips turn up into a smile as he ruffles the boy's hair. That seems to get him going. It’s good, he thinks that the boy has found a reason to stay focused and out of his head. Even if that reason is making sure The Weeping Monk does not die in their care. This is one of the many things he wishes Percival would discuss with him, that the boy will not open up about. He should be angry and annoyed over his concern, but he can’t make himself renounce the boys actions. There's something more to them than the acknowledgment than that the Monk had saved him. There is a genuine affection, despite Lancelot having only been conscious that initial day. The thought pains him even as it enters his head, but he wonders,  _ Does Percival see something I don’t? Something I cannot?  _ He knows the answer is  _ Yes he does,  _ and resigns himself to laying in wait for the knowledge.    
  
+++Lancelot+++   
  
He is not well enough to deal with the child. It has been eight days since they came to Bliants home. He has spent more of that time asleep than awake, despite being in the care of a man that should be his enemy and a boy that has grown both attached and in his own right cold towards him. He doesn’t understand it, and it seems neither does the Green Knight, and when he asks Bliant she only laughs and says, that “the answers will come on their own when it is time.” Today has been a good day. Which put simply means he had woken early and was still awake in the early afternoon. His strength returns with every passing day. He knows his body has some ways still to heal, but the pain is lessened and the blue and purple bruises are beginning to fade to yellow and and brown and green. It’s an ugly sight to behold. Bliants salves have done wonders, beyond anything in the paladin camps has ever done for his injuries. He wonders, not for the first time why, if the herbs help, they are forbidden to the church. But he doesn't have time to dwell on such matters as Percival regales him with some Fey legend he’s never heard before. 

The boy has been incessantly chattering since he woke up and Lancolt knows he should engage, settle the boy by showing him that he is very much alive, but between the speed with which the boy speaks and the light broth in his stomach he feels like he may just retch again. At least there is no longer blood when he does. Bliant assures them that this is a good sign. Even if he is still vomiting the lack of blood indicates that it's from food not setting well and not from the injury itself. Knowing he cannot engage with the boy as he might otherwise he sips slowly on some water and closes his eyes. It doesn’t help as much as he would like.    
  


He would like to go see Goliath, to smell the familiar scents of a barn. A comfort in their own way, better still would be to leave this place. He feels vulnerable and exposed under the healers scrutiny and Gawain's distrust. Neither of which are unearned. If their roles were reversed he isn’t sure he would be as kind as Gawain has shown himself to be. Perhaps not kind, civil, polite? The Knight has treated him with the respect he would treat a stranger, mostly; but he thinks the few jabs he has heard were spoken in haste but not at all underserved.. Perhaps, that is the way he can cope with the knowledge that he is harboring and helping the monster that he is. Lancelot itches to move. But considering that he couldn’t even dress himself without stumbling, yet again this morning, tells him that he shouldn’t push it. This is different. He has been injured before, has traveled with those injuries but now even his mind, muddled as it is, screams at him to stay put despite the urge to run. He slumps forward head thumping lightly on the table and groans.   
  
“Percival.” 

The boy stops talking for a moment and he closes his eyes. The silence is a blessed thing. Gawain has gone out for something, trusting that since Lancelot had not killed the child before he won’t now. And if Lancelot didn’t have a strong opinion about harming children, he might be tempted to finish Brother Salts work and cut out his tongue if it means the pounding in his head will go away.    
  
“Lancelot? Are you okay? Should I get Bliant? Lancelot?”    
  
He does not want to show weakness of any kind, even to a child. Still his head is throbbing threatening to tell his stomach to remove its limited contents.    
  
“Please help me back into bed.” He decides. Maybe the child will understand that he needs to sleep and that means quiet. If Gawain wanted to repay him the debt of stabbing him and turning him over for torture he considers the goal accomplished. Percival picks his story up exactly where he had cut off and Lancelot manages to choke down the whine that threatens to escape his throat. He is off balance, his mind addled and his body fouled up. He is weak and vulnerable and evey instinct in him tells him that this is dangerous, that he can’t afford to be weak and injured. He tries and fails to block Percivals story out and can’t find the words to tell him to be quiet, or ask that he lower his voice and speak slower. At the moment, if he had more energy he very well might bind and gag the boy for some peace and quiet. He settles back against the heap of pillows and lets his head fall back with a woosh as the air in the pillows disperses. He still has a mild fever, but at this point it's more his body fighting off the sick inside him than anything external. He takes a breath as deep as he can handle and closes his eyes. To his very surprised relief the boy goes quiet. He notes that he smells of cedar and leather, uniquely belonging to Gawain, from the hug earlier, but something more; sage and nutmeg. He wrinkles his nose and lets out a breath. Concern. The boy smells of concern.

  
“I’m alright Percival. Just tired.”    
  
“Just tired?”    
  
“Yes.”    
  
He doesn’t remember falling asleep. When he wakes up Percival is curled into his side. The weight should bother his ribs, and yet he finds that it doesn’t the pressure just right, not quite painless, not quite painful. He opens his eyes more fully and notes that the sun has shifted low in the sky casting the golden rays of twilight through the window. He looks down at the boy beside him and smiles softly, just the barest twitch of his lips. It went as fast as it came, leather and cedar itching at his nose.    
  
“You're awake again.”    
  
He doesn't answer, just looks up at the Green Knight with heavy eyes. He looks exhausted too.    
  
“What did you do?” 

“I went scouting, information gathering. I have no idea where my- our - people are. They've left Gramaire.”    
  
“The coast. Your queen made a deal with Uther and Father Carden. Two separate deals. Uther arranged for the Fey to sail. That's where I was going to take Percival and hope that I didn’t miss them.” His mind feels sharper than it did this morning and he wonders if telling him so pointedly was the best option. Gawain studies him long and hard.    
  
“Then we head for the coast when you're well enough to travel. That's only a few days from here. Do you feel up to eating?”    
  
“No. Not yet.” He shifts and Percival stirs. The boy sits up and rubs at his eyes. 

  
“Im hungry.” 

  
“There's food.” He supplies lightly and nods towards Gawain who is removing his armor. It is newly acquired and lacking the standard green of the forest that he prefers. The small table in the middle of the room is laid with their supper. He doesn't join them, just sips the tea Bliant brings him when she checks his bandages.

Everyday that passes brings with it new strength. On the tenth day Bliant removes the bandages and leaves them off. His skin is healed, the bruises no more than a mared yellow and sickly green, some are still brown and angry, against the paleness of his skin. He aches to do something more than sit in bed, or pace the room. Bliant is insistent that he not move too much. She's giving him something to help thin his blood, or so she says. He believes her inherently, but these are Fey methods. It shouldn’t bother him but Cardens words run afoul in his mind despite his best efforts to push them away. He remembers his mother giving him bitter drinks as a child to soothe his stomach or rid him of fever. They had worked. For now he focuses on the next movement, the next event. He cannot dwell in the halls of his mind. The labyrinth there is to large and he hasn’t the time to learn his way out.

He is always with someone, Gawain or Percival mostly, one time Arden. It had not been as awkward as he had thought it might be. Instead unlike the other two, the man had no qualm with him, they were strangers and so they spoke of weapons, and horses, tack and leather quality, or nothing at all. They were comfortable in their silence in a way that could not be achieved with the others. With a clearer mind, Lancelot can admit he understands. Speaking fills the void, blocks the whispers of the mind and allows one to ignore their feelings, their thoughts, if only for a little while longer. 

On the Eleventh day even Gawain appears anxious.    
  
“I can ride if you're ready to set out.” He does not mean to pressure the man, only to inform him. He is well aware of his injuries, that they are not completely healed.    
  
“Fourteen. She said fourteen and unless we have to move before then we won’t.” The counter catches him off guard, but The Green Knight's words are strained. It's as though they are said out of duty and nothing more.    
  
“Why not? I feel fine, the Fey could be long gone. The longer we wait the more distance is put between us, the harder it is to track them.”    
  
“The Hidden commanded me to bring you to Nimue, and to make sure you're alive when I do so. I won't risk you dying from not being completely healed. Besides, your ribs will give you hell.”    
  
“I've ridden with broken ribs before. I admit it isn’t pleasant but it isn't impossible either.” 

Gawain turns his back briefly and scrubs a hand down his face, lets it rest on the pommel of the sword he's carrying now.    
  
“There's no reason to leave too early.” He says again and his tone is that of a commander firm and unyielding. Lancelot pushes.    
  
“And I think we should go if we intend to catch them. If they haven’t already set sail they will and I can’t track them on the open ocean.”    
  
Gawain looks like he might scream. He’s obviously dealt with insubordination if the look he throws at Lancelot is any indication. He knows he has won, though. He too was a commander in charge of the Paladins not Fey rogues. They are evenly matched in their stubbornness, and his win comes only from The Green Knights desire. Gawain wants to see his people, know they are alive and he won't risk delaying locating them any longer than he has to, especially if they leave the country by boat. It would take a very long time to find them again.

“With Bliants permission we will leave tomorrow.” Lancelot holds his eyes, tilts his head to one side and nods. He's satisfied and a minutely surprised. It is certainly out of concern for his people. That is one thing that Lancelot knows inherently about the man that has been at his bedside. He cares, perhaps more deeply than he intends, and that is his weakness, the very one that led him to Lancelot only two weeks before. He stops that train of thought in its tracks. He won't use it against him more than he already has. You don’t manipulate the people you want to trust you. He knows because Carden had manipulated him and he hadn’t trusted the man. Relied on him certainly, utilized him as one would a shield, been obedient out of fear, certainly. Trusted? As much as one trusts the weather to remain steady.   
  
It’s an argument with Bliant but she finally relents with words about stupid fey men and soldiers being lunatics with death wishes. He can’t fault her for that and judging by the sour smell of guilt on Gawain neither can he. Even Percival seems upset by her words.    
  
“She’s a healer. We should listen to her.” The boy says, full of confidence as usual.    
  
“We should. However sometimes, Percival, there are tasks that must be completed despite the consequences.” He raises his head and Gawain avoids his eyes but doesn’t contradict him. When they enter the stable Goliath is as happy to see him as he is to see Goliath. He raises his hand and receives a miffed nip and then a breathy snort as he runs fingers up Goliath's muzzle and up his cheek before pressing their foreheads together. He missed his horse. Goliath had been constant since he’d been received and had been a sturdy companion since. He pulls away and notes that Goliath has already been saddled. He appreciates it, even if he can’t say as much. He aches everywhere despite his many days of rest, and he knows that lifting a saddle with broken ribs is both dangerous and painful. One wrong move and he’d puncture a lung. He reaches for the bridle and Goliath takes it with familiar ease. 

He looks to his companions and pulls himself up into the saddle. He doesn't groan or make a sound, bites it back, but the indifference he usually wears as easily as his cloak fractures for a moment. Instinctively he lowers a hand for Percival who joins him, uncertainly, after a glance towards The Green Knight for permission. He still has a mission and it keeps his head clear. He is grateful that Gawain doesn’t protest this silent request and simply joins them. He notes, discontentedly, that his weapons are with the knight. He cannot begrudge him this, though he feels lost without their familiar weight at his sides. He notes the second sword that Gawain had stolen from the camp is now sheathed and not bare to the air, but doesn’t say anything. He won’t ask for a real sword, for any weapon. If he must kill, or defend, he is capable enough to do so with his hands. 


	6. Travel: Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence between them is louder than anything Percival has ever heard. It makes him uncomfortable and that discomfort causes him to ask every question he has for The Weeping Monk. 
> 
> Lancelot is uncomfortable answering Percival's questions but does so anyways. 
> 
> Gawain, well he's exhausted and stressed and full of anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! 
> 
> This chapter was fun to write and the next one is in the works. :) 
> 
> I also have a couple WIP's that might actually see daylight!

+++Percival+++ 

  
  
By noon Percival complains that he needs to stretch. It isn’t so much that he needs to stretch as it is that the silence between the three of them is thicker than the air in the house when his parents fought. He wanders a way into the woods under the guise of stretching and listens to see if the other two will speak. They don't and it frustrates him to no end. The silence between them all is deafening. The sun is high in the sky and the air is stagnant. He makes his way back to the clearing they’ve stopped in and stands by Gawain who hands him a water skin and piece of bread and dried meat.    
  
He eats it slowly and eyes them both in the process. It’s uncanny. The two move in tandem without speaking. Gawain throws a water skin to Lancelot who catches it with a nod, drinks and throws it back. They should need to speak, being strangers and all. But it's like they can read each other's minds instead. Perhaps it's because they are both warriors? Either way it’s eerie and puts Squirrel on edge. Finally Gawain speaks, it's a short sentence directed to no one in particular.   
  
“We need to get back on the road.” 

With little hesitation Lancelot mounts Goliath. The process is slower than it ought to be and Percival wonders how bad his ribs hurt, as he stands. He brushes his hands on his pants and approaches Gawain who is checking the tack on his own mare one more time. 

“Can I ride with you awhile Green Knight?”    
  
“Yes.”

So he climbs up in front of Gawain and they set out. Lancelot rides slightly ahead to the right, he seems to curl in on himself a little. Though admittedly he doesn’t know what he looked like riding the last couple of times. Nothing good he imagines, being so close to death as he was. As they continue along the path he wonders if Gawain is purposefully falling behind to watch the monk. He doesn’t quite know what benefit it would give him, but he trusts the knight's judgment implicitly. 

As the silence stretches his discomfort only grows. He can only sit still and watch their surroundings so long. He feels alone, even seated in front of the Green knight. And he does not want to be alone. He sucks in a deep breath and then he does what he does very well and blathers into the air. It's nothing important until it is. He doesn’t mean for the questions to start coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t mean for his anger and his uncertainty to come out, but it does. He can feel the weight on his shoulders start to sink into his stomach and he has to move. He starts by turning in his saddle enough to see Gawain out of the corner of his eyes and look at Lancelot completely. 

"Where are we going? Do we know if it's the right place? How can you possibly know where we need to go?" He watches Gawain turn his head to look at Lancelot and then down at him. 

"According to him,” a nod in Lancelot's general direction, “Nimue made a deal with Uther that involved our people sailing to some other land." 

"Nimue would never! This is our home!" 

"She did Percival. To save you." Lancelot rasps, lifting a hand to his side. His ribs were probably aching. Unlike Percivals own bruises, Lancelots had only just begun to really heal.    
  
“But I don’t understand. Where would we go?”    
  
“I don’t know where Uthers ships were to take the Fey. Only that they were supposed to take them from Beggars Coast.” Lancelot informs him, hand visibly pressing harder on his ribs.    
  
“Why are we heading south then? Isn't that west of us?”    
  
“Yes,” Gawain supplies behind him, chest rising and falling against his back. “We need to avoid the Paladin camps and that means being low enough not to pass through them.”    
  
“Alright then.” He settles some, leaning back against the man.    
  
They lapse into silence again. It eats at his insides, makes him squirm uncomfortably. The longer he sits in the tension stretching between them the more the pressure grows inside him. The anger that has simmered since their escape is now boiling at his surface. He can practically hear Gawain thinking behind him and he has no idea what is happening in the mind of the Monk. He fidgets and Gawain taps his arm startling him.    
  
“What is it Percival?” He prompts a voice gentle enough that it causes Percival to still. Unfortunately the question was all the spark to tinder and Percival erupted into an inferno of rage.    
  
“Why did you help them hunt down your own kind?” The venom in his words burns his throat on the way up, leaving a bitter spice on his tongue. When Lancelot does not immediately answer the rest of his questions join the first in the open air between them. It only serves to add fuel to the wildfire of his heart. Gawain does not stop him and he doesn’t know if he should be glad or angrier for it.    
  
“Why Did you use me as bait to track the other Fey down? Why couldn’t you just let us go? We never did anything to you, or to the bloody paladins. You're the reason my family is dead, and the reason The Green Knight died. Why did you Rescue me? Were you going to use me as bait again? I don’t understand you. I should hate you.” His voice breaks here fire turning to steam, and steam into tears as he tries not to cry in front of The Green Knight. “But I don’t and I don’t understand why I don’t. Tell me you’ve done good things? Tell me you aren't all evil to the core?”    
  
He swallows and breathes heavily. Gawain's arm tightens around him and he leans back into the embrace. His eyes never leave The Weeping Monks back and he hopes the man can feel them burning into his soul. Taking him apart seam by seam. The slump in the man's shoulders and the way he bows his head against the barrage of questions remind him of shame, and maybe the monk does feel that, maybe. But Percival is too irritated and wrathful to believe that; too angry to remember that he doesn’t know Lancelot's story or his motives. He wants answers and the monk's silence is not an answer. Perhaps it's an admission but he wants to hear Lancelot say that he did those things. Give some answer for them.    
  
“Give me an answer, damn it!” He commanded the monk, determination coloring his voice turning it hoarse and high. His nostrils flared and he heaved in deep breaths to try and calm himself down.    
  
“Let him formulate his words Percival.” Warned Gawain. Which only serves to enrage him further. How dare The Green Knight of all people protect The Weeping Monk. How dare he betray his people like that? How could he support the man who had killed so many of his own? It made Percival sick and further served to remind him of his own internal conflict.    
  
“What does that mean?” He sneers, voice harsh as he turns to side eye the man behind him.    
  
“I imagine that he is trying to figure out how to say it in a way that makes sense to an eleven year old.” Observed the knight, arm still tight around his shoulders. He wiggles until it comes free. He does not want to be touched by the man who he looks up to. Not right now, not while he tries to justify the Monk.    
  
“He can talk to me like I’m an adult. Gods know I've seen enough.” He disagrees bitterly. It's then that he notes that Lancelot has slowed enough to plod along beside them. He looks over at the hooded man and furrows his brows. He’s tired of waiting.    
  
“Look at me,” the demand startles them all, but he does not back down.

  
  
++++++LANCELOT+++++   
  


How exactly is he supposed to answer the boy? He swallows down the bile in his throat and tries to think of any answer that might satisfy him. There isn’t one. Lancelot had killed hundreds of Fey, had been the one to lead armies to burn their villages and forests and collapse their caves. He had stood by and watched as men and women were strung up on crosses and burned alive. The echoes of their screams chasing him even in restless sleep. He stood by and watched as children were pulled from their mothers arms, the way he had been, and killed on the ends of swords, axes, and arrows. His life is painted in rivers of red, blood and flame and rage. There is no answer to give the boy but the truth. And the truth is wretched and disfigured. The truth is bitter and poison and damming and yet it is all he can offer. Percival was right, the Fey had done no wrong to Lancelot or to the church, save the inherent belief that by their mere existence they were demons born of the devil. People fear that which they do not know. That is why he himself had been feared. He was a killer, an assassin and the brothers didn't know him. They had simply feared him and shied away from him, save for when he gave the orders to burn. In that one moment they were united. United as murderers. It is no wonder he can not feel the grace of God when he cries out.    
  
He lets his shoulders slump and hangs his head. Maybe the boy will simply accept that there is no good answer and they can continue in silence. It is not. The boy demands an answer. An answer to some of the very same questions he remembers asking Carden and the other brothers when he was first taken from his homeland.Questions that had kept him up in the darkness of his cell, that rolled around in his mind like the echoes of his mothers voice. He knows that his responses will not satisfy Percival, just as Cardens had never truly satisfied him; but, he will dignify the boy with an answer nevertheless. He slows his horse to match Gawain's pace and stares straight ahead, hood falling over his face. It will be an agony he cannot bear if he is to look at the boy now. He clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth before he finds the words and manages to speak. His voice is low and sounds like a wet stone on steel to his own ears, then again his head is throbbing still.    
  
“Killing Fey… it’s all I’ve known since I was younger than you are now. It’s what they trained me to do from the moment they took me from my home; tore me from my mothers arms.”    
  
Percivals voice is laced with disgust as he butts in.

“They trained you to be a murderer as a child? Didn’t you ever think it was wrong? When you got older?” Lancelot wishes he hadn’t obeyed the last command and made eye contact, the boy looks terrified and hurt and three kinds of enraged.    
  
“I did. Yes, especially at first. However as I got older it was harder to believe I had any other choice. When I refused to obey, or hesitated to spill blood, they would take my hands and make me do it anyway and beat me, after, until I couldn’t move for days. I was desperate to survive, so I did as I was told.”    
  
“That’s not an excuse! It doesn’t make it right!” Percival objected, though it sounded weaker than his previous sentiments. He hangs his head again, sombre and dejected and studies the horn on the goliath's saddle as though it is the most interesting thing he has ever seen. It is several moments until he gathers his thoughts again. The smell on the air is bitter with anger and leaves him feeling more nauseous than the headache. He listens to the steady rhythm of the horses moving along the path, of the stream nearby and finally he can speak again.   
  
“I know. And neither was using you as bait. I… I am truly sorry for that. I hurt you in doing so.”    
  
“Then why did you do it?” The fire is gone from Percivals voice, and something closer to shock fills it. He pointedly does not look at Gawain though he can feel the man's gaze on him. He flushes slightly. Then, resuming his forward gaze,    
  
“ I chose to see you not a boy, but as a tool. I was given orders and I  _ needed _ to obey them.”    
  
“What does that even mean?”   
  
Gawain intercedes on his behalf, voice like ice chilling him to the bone.   
  
“He saw you the way they saw him. Fletching on an arrow, a dog to chase foul, smoke to run out foxes.”    
  
“Yes.” He whispers in agreement,, nodding his head marginally and tensing his shoulders.    
  
“How did you see the people in my village?” The heartbreak in Percivals voice is enough to stop him answering. He does not wish the boy further pain, he won’t lie to him, but he can’t answer this. Not right now. Likely never.    
  
“I. I won’t answer that.” Now he does meat Gawain's eyes. Not in challenge; but in supplication.    
  
“Do you regret it? The things you’ve done?” Gawain asks over Percivals protests. It's not a change in subject, a very uncomfortable subject, but it is a change of topic and for that he is grateful. He does not turn his eyes away from the hazel ones staring into his soul. He feels vulnerable beneath the other man's gaze and yet he cannot look away though he desperately wishes he could.   
  
“Yes…” he starts slowly, “I do. More and more with every passing day. I knew when I was young that it was wrong. At some point, it stopped being about right and wrong. It was about survival. I did what I believed necessary to stay alive. At some point though, being alive wasn’t the same as living. Looking back…. It would have been better to let them kill me. I wanted to believe in Fathers words. Some days that hope of salvation he offered was all that kept me from going mad.” He lets his voice drift soft at the end. Finally he looks away from Gawain and raises a hand to pet Goliath's neck. Sucking in a shuddering breath he attempts to settle whatever emotion it is rising in his chest and causing his throat to ache.    
  
“But knowing it was wrong is why you chose to save me?” Percival speaks again in the simplistic, honest way of children.    
  
“In part.” he notices the expectant look on Percival's face from the corner of his eye. “It was the knowledge I already had, something Father said and didn’t do, and Gawain's words to me. It was as though some part of me shifted. I didn’t have a choice after that. I knew it was the right thing—The only thing, I could do.” 

He casts his gaze from Goliath's neck back towards the road, hands shaking so much that he grips the reins tightly in an attempt to make them stop. The boy falls silent, face scrunched up in thought. Lips pursed and chin tucked to his chest. He doesn't ride forward, but remains at Gawain's side. It’s an invitation. Gawain may ask him questions if he likes. He doesn’t and Lancelot finds himself relaxing at the knowledge that his answers have sated his new companions for the time being. There is an edge in the silence prodding at him like his ribs every time he breathes. Still, even with the sting of it present the journey turns in a more amenable direction. 

The sun is beginning to touch the tops of the trees. It would be prudent for them to settle in for the night. As though the knight riding beside him can read mind Gawain directs Percival to look out for a clearing to stop for the evening. It doesn't take them long to locate a spot off the road, near the stream. It's perfect, secluded enough not to be noticed, unless they let the fire burn, yet it maintains plenty of sight lines to the road. They work in silence, practiced in their own right, as they unpack their few belongings. Gawain tasks Percival with gathering firewood and filling the waterskins. He trusts the boy to know if the water is good or not. When he has gone and Gawain has given the horses their grain, the knight turns to him. 

  
“We should discuss how the watch will work.” There is no malice, only deep rooted exhaustion and annoyance in his features. He nods his agreement and maintains the eye contact, waiting and not dismissive.    
  
“There is really no good way to do this. I don’t trust you to keep watch alone. I don't trust you to keep watch with Percival. Percival cannot keep watch on his own. And I cannot keep watch all night.”    
  
“You trusted Percival to keep watch of me while you were away.” He notes softly. Gawain grimaces and pinches his nose, his other hand resting on the pommel of his sword.    
  
“He wasn’t alone with you. And you were injured.”    
  
“Both of those points are still true.” He schools his features and forcibly does not smirk. It’s fun getting under Gawain's skin. He doesn’t mean to do it, but seeing the knight riled up turns his stomach pleasantly, so when it happens, as it will inevitably do, he pushes it just a touch. He’s good at reading people's limits, he had to be. 

Gawain inhales sharply and Lancelot returns his focus.    
  
“You and Percival will keep watch together. If you hurt him, betray us, or decide to leave, I will hunt you down and flay you alive.” Gawain's voice is as unwavering as his eyes. They do not leave his face as the man stares him down, waiting for an answer.    
  
“I cannot offer you my word. There is no honor to back it. I can give you a promise of good faith in its absence. I will not harm the boy, or you. I will not betray you to paladins or animals alike that may come in the night. And I will not leave. I told you before and I hold to it still, I will face trial by the Fey council.”    
  
Hazel's eyes linger on his face and his cheeks heat under the scrutiny. The Green Knight stares at him, more than he likes. Absently he wonders if it's his way of trying to understand him.    
  
“I will take the first watch. At midnight, you two will take the second. If necessary Percival can sleep while we ride tomorrow.” 

Supper is meager, but filling. Dried meat and some cheese. The fire is warm against his skin, and it is comforting. He watches as the flames orange tendril flick at the night air, coiling and unraveling. He admires the way the coal shines bright white. He forces his eyes away when an unwanted memory enters his mind. He stretches his neck and shoulders, wincing as it jostles his ribs, and focuses instead on the sounds around him instead of the smell of the fire, or the outline still visible through his eyelids.    
“Have you chewed any of the willow bark Bliant gave you?” The reprimand is clear in The Green Knights voice.    
  
He shakes his head. He hadn’t because he deserved the burn in his lungs with each breath to remind him of those he allowed to burn alive, most notably the Moonwing tribe. He deserves the ache in his joints and muscles for all those he has knocked down and left bruised and bloody in his wake. The nausea to remind him of those who had watched their family die around them. If his pain could not cleans him then it could be a reminder of his past actions. A reminder of who he was and what he had done. It was an atonement, not an absolution.    
  
“You’ll heal faster if you chew it.” Percival yawns from where he has crawled into his bed role. He’s snuggled down to his chin and rolled to his side, back to the fire.    
  
“Perhaps.”    
  
“Sleep better too.” The boy mumbles and shifts again. He doesn’t answer, just does what he knows they want him to do. He reaches for his bag and pulls out some of the bark. It's been ground finely like tobacco sometimes is so he can tuck it under his tongue or into his lip. It's more potent this way. He places a pinch under his tongue and instantly his mouth waters from the burn. It is much more bitter this way than straight from the tree. Silently he settles himself into his own bedroll, cloak pulled securely around him. He falls asleep not long after listening to Gawain hum some ancient Fey song into the night. It's distant and all too familiar and pulls him right into the arms of sleep.

  
  
+++++GAWAIN++++

  
When he has finished sending Percival to gather firewood and water he turns his attention to the monk. He does not enjoy the prospect of him taking watch alone, nor can they avoid it. 

“We should discuss how the watch will work.” he attempts to keep his voice neutral and it seems to work as the monk turns towards him and makes eye contact. It doesn’t waver and that is a comfort to Gawain as much as it is prod to his pride. Lancelot should not feel capable of making prolonged eye contact with him, they are not on the same level. He lets his eyes flicker over the other briefly as he crosses his arms and speaks. _   
_ _   
_ “There is really no good way to do this. I don’t trust you to keep watch alone. I don't trust you to keep watch with Percival. Percival cannot keep watch on his own. And I cannot keep watch all night.”  _   
_ _   
_ “You trusted Percival to keep watch of me while you were away.” He rubs a hand over his face and settles for pinching the bridge of his nose, his other hand falling instinctively to the pommel of his sword. He thought the man whispered before because he was uncomfortable, but it was becoming clear that perhaps it was simply in his demeanor to be quiet and subdued. It’s irritating. It's not that The Weeping Monks voice is monotonous, but that it is soothing even if it is raspy and low. His voice is too soft for a murderer, for a paladin. They were loud and boisterous, not… this.  _   
_ _   
_ “He wasn’t alone with you. And you were injured.” He refrains from sighing, only just and straightens his shoulders instead.  _   
_ _   
_ “Both of those points are still true.” There is a flash of emotion on The Monks face as he says the words, amusement almost. Gawain grinds his teeth and clenches his hand around the pommel of his sword, his other hand coming to rest at his side in a fist as he inhales sharply.  __ _   
_ _   
_ “You and Percival will keep watch together. If you hurt him, betray us, or decide to leave, I will hunt you down and flay you alive.” He aims for stern and threatening and knows he has hit the mark as he watches The Monks face as he formulates his response. He notes the way his jaw goes slack and then tightens as he furrows his brows blue eyes raging as he comes to a decision. _   
_ _   
_ “I cannot offer you my word. There is no honor to back it. I can give you a promise of good faith in its absence. I will not harm the boy, or you. I will not betray you to paladins or animals alike that may come in the night. And I will not leave. I told you before and I hold to it still, I will face trial by the Fey council.” Gawain finds himself staring at blue eyes, and sculpted face longer than is appropriate or necessary. He forces himself not to react as pink rises across the other man's nose and cheeks. He narrows his eyes slightly and nods in acceptance.  _   
_   
“I will take the first watch. At midnight, you two will take the second. If necessary Percival can sleep while we ride tomorrow.” 

Their supper is nothing special, left over dried meat that Bliant had insisted they take and some cheese. There is enough for one more day and then they will need to take time to hunt. They wouldn’t if they could travel at a faster rate, but he knows what it’s like to ride with broken ribs and bruised skin and doesn't push them. Beyond that Bliant had been firm in her reprimand that they were traveling too soon and The Monks injuries could still be threatening if they were not careful. He watches The Monk through the fire, he is like some cold unmoving wraith and when the flames cast flickering shadows across his hands and face he can't help but admire the way they highlight the curve of his back and throat as he stretches out his neck and shoulders. He frowns when he notices the way the man winces from the pain and wonders if he's used any of the willow bark they were sent with.    
_   
_ “Have you chewed any of the willow bark Bliant gave you?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a reprimand and yet that’s exactly what his tone implies. He really shouldn’t care if the man has chosen to neglect himself, and yet he does. The orders from the Hidden echoing in his mind and weighing on his shoulders. 

The Monk shakes his head and that's all the answer he gets. 

_  
_“You’ll heal faster if you chew it.” Percival yawns from where he has crawled into his bed role. He’s snuggled down to his chin and rolled to his side, back to the fire. A smile inches its way across his face. For all his anger earlier the boy still shows compassion and inadvertently trusts with his actions. It warms Gawain to know that even after everything the boy is not completely irreparably damaged. _  
__  
_“Perhaps.”  
 _  
_“Sleep better too.” The boy mumbles and shifts again. The sound of a rustling cloth draws his attention back from the boy and to the man across the fire. He watches with interest as he pulls out the little tin of ground bark and places a pinch beneath his tongue. He almost laughs when his eyes water and he swallows instinctively from the burn. Gawain knows the feeling like he knows the feel of his armor, or a blade in his hand. He thinks that perhaps The Monk does not and some distant part of him aches for that. It isn’t long before the Monk joins Percival in the act of sleep, curling his cloak around him and shifting more comfortably on his bedroll. Absently he hums an old lullaby of the Fey. He isn’t entirely certain why he does it, but it brings him comfort as he sits in the dark the flames of a dying fire his only company.  


There is an energy brimming in him, aching to get out. He knows this energy, it’s familiar as it coils in his chest and squeezes his lungs. Anxiety. He has every reason to be anxious he thinks; for instance, his mind supplies, you died and now you're alive; not to mention The Monk asleep across the fire from him; or Squirrels mixed feelings of attraction and respect for the man; and The Hiddens orders to bring The Monk before Nimue and the Elders alive; nor the concern for his people taking a deal with Uther and leaving themselves vulnerable on the beaches, lastly the knowledge the Nimue may not even be with their people considering that very agreement. Who let her make such a decision? Did no one council her against it?  _ Of course not, fool, you weren’t there to be the stable one _ .  _ They’re all just children. Why did I let her name herself queen? There had to have been a different way?  _

It didn’t matter now if there had been a different way or not. Not while he sat alone in the darkness, the embers of the fire the only source of light, dim against the void of the night. He sat, posture straight and proper as he had been taught as both boy and warrior. Tilting his head back, hair catching slightly in the bark of the tree he looked to the sky for answers. Where did he start? What did he start with, his emotions, the challenges, the people? It was all intertwined with no reprieve in sight. What was the most immediate source of discomfort? What was the most important issue at hand? What needed to be addressed first?    
  
Ultimately it was the ones that he was surrounded by currently. There would be nothing simple about sorting through his feelings about The Monk or determining the best course of action for helping to dissuade the boy from becoming more enamored by him. He wondered and wondered into the night about why the Hidden wanted The Monk alive. What could the man possibly do for the Hidden, for the Fey. His comment about the Fey using a warrior like him had been rooted in truth, he could certainly help change the tides of the war with his knowledge and skills with weaponry. But there must have been much more. Much much more. Right? He is a murderer, a kin killer. There is nothing about the man that says he should be redeemable. And yet that's what The Monk said it was that he seeks. He grimaces and suppresses a shudder as he recalls that he had offered the man forgiveness. Forgiveness of all things, for what, that he himself might feel better? Because he had hoped that the words would extinguish some of the hate in his heart? For the slim chance that he could be a good role model for Squirrel because the boy deserved people in his life that were good. Who weren't worn out by war and made ugly and deformed and broken by the things they have seen and the things that they have done. 

Instead he had Gawain, broken and defeated by the consistency of war, turned bitter against the race of men. Gawain, who given the chance, would have stabbed The Monk in the back if it meant he could never kill again. Gawain who was loyal to his people, to a fault, and obedient beyond his own understanding to the Hidden. Nimue who was too busy to give him the attention he needed from some kind of motherly or sisterly persona. Nimue, made impulsive by the sword, violent even. Nimue with her boy troubles and love of manbloods. Nimue with too much worry over too many people for someone so young. Pym, barely a healer. The girl who wove nets who was never meant to be something more, but who always wanted to be. The girl who was too young to give wise counsel but tried nonetheless. The girl who sought to be useful and skilled but who was never important to anyone. The girl who deserved just as much and more than Percival himself. Arthur and Morgan man bloods who gave council. Good counsel at that, even if he did not wish to admit it. Kaze with the blood of a fierce warrior, and a taste for blood, but wise beside. Counselor of queens and battle hardened. And now, The Weeping Monk, harbinger of death and destruction, grey in ash and a parrot too. A man incapable of thinking for himself, content to live as a slave taking orders from his master even after he's been kicked like some kind of overtly loyal dog.    
  
He laughs bitterly, mirthlessly, the mist of night damp on his skin. What is he to do? To be? Why had the Hidden saved his life. It most certainly was not so he could be a mentor or a father to Squirrel, certainly it could not have been for the sake of the Monk. They could have chosen to tell anyone of the elders that he was not to be killed, instead they had resurrected him from the dead. He could have been done. This world no longer his responsibility. The Fey no longer his to protect or be concerned about. He should be dead, returned to the green where he should be able to rest for eternity. Instead, here he was, exhausted and cold, and so tightly wound that when the sound of a snapping twig reached his ears he found his feet in a fluid motion, sword drawn and at the ready. His eyes scanning the forest for signs of enemy and attack. Looking into the nighttide and saw nothing. Heart hammering rapidly in his chest he breathed deep and listened to darkness around him. No sounds followed the first. The tension does not leave his body. Slowly and carefully he makes his way around the perimeter of their camp stopping and listening occasionally. Satisfied that there is nothing nearby he returns to his location by the tree and settles in for a long night of waiting, wondering, worrying and overthinking. 


	7. At the Base of the Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Morgana search for Nimue. 
> 
> Pym is a leader in the making ( you can't change my mind). 
> 
> Lancelot reveals a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My update schedule got a little wonky... my apologies. 
> 
> BUT this chapter has a beta reader and I am so very thankful! 
> 
> The lovely SuperLizard was gracious enough to read through this and catch all the tense strangeness I was doing. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Adjusting his feet on uneven, slick stone Merlin holds the widow close against his chest. The rain and waterfall spray soaks them through their layers of clothing and chills them to the bone. Or it would have, if not for the fact that the woman is Death and death could not feel such trivial things as hot and cold, nor could Merlin focus on such a mortal difficulty as magic hummed through his veins once more. The whir of magic crackles in the air around them, lightning flashing, visible even through closed eyes. The spell works as it should; for a moment they fall through shadow and nothing, then they land, feet rejoining the earth.

Opening his eyes, he squints against the spray seeking to destroy his retinas and scans the turning water for his daughter. Nimue had to be here, in this pool. Certainly she could have been pushed further down stream, but it seemed at this moment, unlikely. The widow with her new face pulls away from him to begin her own frantic and frightful search. He blinks against the light and the spindrift as he relishes in the vibrancy that is his returned magic. He feels renewed, whole again. He can feel the singing of magic in his veins, awakening long since closed off passageways and igniting a part of him he feared would never exist again. While he would love to bask in the ecstasy and relish the pulsing of life in his skin, he knows there is a more urgent matter to attend. He joins the widow, the new widow, in her search for Nimue. 

He circles opposite the woman cloaked in black, drenched clothing leaving nothing to be imagined, and seeks out signs of blood in the water, hair on the surface, anything to tell him where Nimue has surfaced. They cannot search farther downstream until they are completely certain she is not here, and that might take a while with only the two of them. Walking slowly, deliberately, he looks for signs in the grass and the mud on the edge of the shore for signs of his daughter. Finding none, he fears that the current may have carried her further downstream; He groans. She doesn’t have time for them to be wasting it, walking around. He will not lose her now that he knows of her. Now that he has a chance to get to know her. 

The sun is beginning to fade, and they will quickly lose the ability to search for her. They must be brisk in their search, careful but quick. Glancing across the basin he finds the widow doing the same. When their eyes meet they share a grim shake of their heads. There is nothing that indicates she is still in the tarn. Drenched from head to toe, clothes clinging tightly to their bodies, they rejoin one another nearest the mouth of the narrow river. The only place they could not see was directly beneath the waterfall, and the power of the torrent alone would have pushed Nimue, unconscious or not, outward from its base.

“She must be further downstream.” The woman insists. 

“Who are you and how did you become the widow?” He yells against the roaring of the falls and the deafening humming in his ears. The woman flinches back and stares at him, eyebrows pinched together creasing her forehead. Shaking her head in annoyance or disappointment she pushes past him and begins the trek down stream. Instinctively he follows, crossing over to the other side of the small river; despite its size, it is flowing quickly and roughly. From this side he can see into the reeds of the opposite bank better. In this way they can cover both sides more effectively, and be ready to assist her as soon as they find her. And they will find her, of that he is certain; the only question that remains is whether she will be alive when they do. 

The pair walk in silence down the banks separated by the roar of the rapids and the thundering of the falls. Merlin's eyes dart between the bank, the river, and the new widow. This does not bode well. He wonders what has happened that the widow is no longer an old friend but a young and unknown face. He knows that it means she was killed, at some level, but it is surprising all the same. Whatever happened can't be good. Pushing that train of thought away he turns his attention back to the grassy banks of the turbulent river. Pointedly, he ignores the familiar itch in his right hand, and pushes down the haze that comes with having not used his magic in so long. 

When the sound of the falls has died to a mere whimper he calls across the river, repeating his previous question. The woman answers, voice steady and unwavering. She does not meet his eyes, and that is fine. 

“Who are you and how did you come to be the widow?” 

“I’m Morgana, Nimue's friend. Don’t you recognize me?” She barks out, shaking her head at him and rolling her eyes. 

“My dear, when you have lived as long as I have, you stop remembering faces that aren't important.” This is the best answer he can offer her. 

“And I killed the widow with that sword.” Shrugging, she turns her attention to a reedy area. There is an odd break in the foliage growing in the shallows of the bend. The tall grasses are folded over and there is an indentation in the berry bush. Without thinking he runs ahead to the visibly shallower section of the river and splashes his way back to her. His robes drag in the water behind him but he can’t be bothered to mess with them as he hears Morgana cry out. HIs heart constricts in his chest and he redoubles his effort to reach them. 

“Nimue, Nimue!” Morgana calls and kneels beside the form of a body he can barely see from his vantage point. He bats the branches of the bush away with the sword and kneels in the water to get a better look at the wounds. Initially he can see that the arrow from her shoulder has dislodged itself completely and is oozing blood, the other arrow has broken off leaving a short nub where the shaft should have been. He knows his magic and his knowledge could help her, but they don’t have any supplies here. He inhales sharply, his mind made up. 

“We need to get her to a healer.” Morgana's wavering voice catches his attention and for a moment all he can do is stare. 

These two women, his daughter and her friend, the widow, are so young. Blinking he nods, “I know. Now take my hand and hold tight to her. I haven’t done this in years.” 

+++++PYM+++++

Looking out from the cave she can see that they have lost a great many in this betrayal. She swallows and pushes past Kaze. She isn’t the best healer but she could certainly help. She needed to help. The sight of the Red Spear and her men only encourages her to do so. She had tended to those men and it had kept her alive, and now they had helped save her people. For their own reasons she was sure, but the least she could do for Doff's brothers was help them live. Beyond that her own people need help, and she has enough skills to be useful now. 

The sand under her feet gives way and she nearly falls several times as she avoids puddles of blood forming on the still wet sand and corpses alike, searching for those that are alive and can be helped. She doesn’t get far before Arthur and The Red Spear are calling for her. Their voices are barely audible over the wind blowing through the beach. She whips her head around and wipes stray hairs from her face, annoyed. What could they possibly need that is more important than this? Why aren't they getting the others to help? Moving much more quickly than she had been she makes her way towards them. Her shoulders draw inward as she comes under the gaze of the Red Spear, and she ducks her head in acknowledgment.

“You have found your people again, healer.” Fidgeting with her braid she nods. The Red Spear does not seem at all enthused. Arthur looks between them and huffs out a laugh.

“Well then, I suppose you can act as our go-between since you actually have an understanding of the raiders.” 

“We aren’t raiders, we are warriors! That is beside the point now. The wounded need tended to. We have put down the last of Cumber's men.” 

“Our healers will do everything they can for your men as well as our own. Pym organize those who can help with this.” 

“Me!” She lets her hands fall away from her braid and stares at Arthur in surprise. 

“Yes, you. The people will listen to you. Nimue left me in charge but I’m not a fey. Work with me.” 

Throwing her hands up she turns her back on the couple and mutters, “Sure thing, as if Cora or the others wouldn't be better matched for this.” She trudged back across the body strewn beach, towards the other fey. As she approaches, some of the older fey moved towards the front of the group. Expressing a strength she did not feel, she pulls her shoulders back and tries for an air of authority. 

“I need volunteers to tend to the wounded. And volunteers to sort through the bodies of the dead, so we can send them into the twilight properly.” She lets her words hang in the air, her throat constricting. They have all lost so many people, family, friends, loved ones. When the silence has stretched untowardly long, she collects herself and pushes the distraught faces from her mind. 

“If you are strong enough to carry the wounded and dead, I need you out there doing so. Wounded go near the cave, the dead get sorted here on the beach. If you cannot lift the injured I want you setting up tents to tend them in near the caves. If you are a healer or have any knowledge or practice in the area, we need to get the supplies set up so we can all access them.” Her voice is soft on the wind of the coast, and for a moment she fears no one has heard her, but then they start moving. Men and women both in groups to the cave, the boats with their supplies, and towards the red stained sand. She takes a moment longer to collect herself and joins the others at the cave. Kaze has gone, joining Arthur, the Red Spear, and several other warriors near the center of the battlefield. Ignoring them, Pym sets to work laying out blankets and weighing them down on the edges. 

They use crates and rocks to lift their tools, salves, and bandages from the ground, to put their pestles and mortars on. It isn’t long before the injured start filling up the space around them. She answers questions as best she can, and fields the others to Yeva or Cora or any of the elders who have come to help. They know more than she, she thinks. She is surrounded by the noise of the dying, and wounded, of healers, and mothers and fathers treating them as best they can. Whispered prayers and howls of pain are her companions in the fading light of day. The smell of sea water and herbs cover over the smell of death, but infection is the main concern for those who yet live. 

There are those they can’t save, as there always are after a battle. She does her best to make them comfortable, but does not waste the medicines they have on bandaging the wounds. They give those who are entering into the realm of the dead only pain relief and make them as comfortable as possible. She knows what those who have no hope of life left look like, and when she glances around she sees that she is not alone in this. The moans and groans of the dying men and women around her cause her heart to ache. There is nothing for it, nothing but to continue doing as she was and tending the injured she could still help. 

Her hands have stopped shaking as she works at stitching up a gash in a Tusks arm. Willing herself to breath evenly, she focuses on the individual stitches. They aren’t as neat as some of the others, that’s for certain, but they get the job done. It stops the bleeding and presses the flesh together in a seam. With quick and definitive movements she covers the flesh with a poultice and wraps it with clean bandages and sends this one on his way. 

They work well into the dark, the torches and bonfires their only light. It’s harder this way, but there are still many injured, and it would not do well to let them wait until morning. Finished with another patient, she stretched out her neck, rolling her shoulders and stretching out her arms before slumping forward on one of the crates and closing her eyes for a moment. She barely reacts when something warm is draped over her shoulders. It seems to her she has only rested a moment when she was shaken awake. 

‘Wha-what is it?” She slurs, wiping sleep from her eyes and attempting to grasp at the blanket falling from her shoulders. As it landed in the dust it was forgotten. There, at the center of the camp stood Morgana, soaking wet and dressed in black, with Merlin; and in their arms a limp and bleeding Nimue. 

++++Lancelot++++

They’ve been traveling for three days in varying degrees of silence and conversation. It’s just after noon, the sun is high above them, though it is blocked by angry black clouds. The air is heady with the scent of rain, and the trio has fallen into another silence. Their moods sour by the idea that they may be traveling while soaking wet. It is not ideal, but there would be a day yet before they arrive at Beggars Coast with no certainty that they would be met with the rest of the Fey. It wears on The Green Knight, and even Percival begins to show signs of concern. 

The scenery has changed at least. The paths that they follow now are not so open and full of short shrubs and weeds. Instead, the narrow trails are hidden among the trees of the woods; they are little more than those created by the deer. He follows behind Gawain, Percival in front of him in the saddle. He can’t help but cast his gaze to and fro, tracking movement in the woods. Normally he is very good about blocking out scents he doesn’t need to focus on, but today he lets them invade his senses. Everything from the scent of the boy in front of him to the fox scurrying over a log 30 feet from them. It’s fresh and puts him at ease. Familiar in a way nothing has been in a very long time. There is no blood, smoke, or burning flesh, no infection, rotting flesh, or soiled goods to assault his senses. Silently he watches as squirrels scurry across the forest floor seeking out food before the storm comes.

The shift of wind around them breaks his focus and he turns his eyes forward to study the tight line of Gawain's shoulders. The warrior sits rigid and still, he would be a statue if not for the gentle sway of riding a horse. Something is bothering him, but Lancelot does not know if he has any right to inquire as to what. Instead, he tries to think through what might have The Green Knight of the Fey so concerned. The problem with this, is that he doesn’t know anything about him. Well nothing personal. Lancelot knows that he is the most prominent and perhaps skilled fighter of the Fey, that he was their one of their leaders (if his silence in Brother Salt's tent was anything to go by) and that he is concerned that they won’t make it in time to meet with the others. While these are all pertinent pieces of information, they do not account for the other man's foul mood. Perhaps he has a loved one or lover among the Fey whom he is concerned for? The possibilities are endless. 

“Lancelot?” He nearly misses Percivals uncertain voice as it bleeds into the wind. 

“Yes?” 

“You never answered my question.” 

“Hm, which of your questions? You asked many questions.” The acknowledgment makes his stomach turn. He does not want to return to discussion on his actions. Not at this moment at least. 

“Why did you name him Goliath?” The boy pats the horse's neck and gives it a scratch, which Goliath seems appreciative of. There was no harm in telling him the truth now that he wasn’t dying.

“Because he is large and powerful. Goliath was a giant who nearly conquered an entire army single handedly, according to the scriptures.” He had thought it impossible for Gawain to look more uncomfortable but he notes the twitch in his shoulders as he stops himself from turning to look at them. Lancelot has not looked away from the other man since he started trying to determine the cause of his melancholy.

“Nearly? What happened? Why Didn’t he?” As predicted, Percival seems excited about the prospect of a new story. Unfortunately Lancelot intends only to paraphrase. He doesn't think Gawain would appreciate him spouting his beliefs, the paladins' beliefs, at the boy. 

“He was hit in the head with a stone, and once unconscious his head was cut off by his enemy.” 

“That's stupid. Why would you name your horse after someone who died like that? It’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps, it is a reminder that even the greatest can fall. I believe it suits him.” 

“ Do you...do you think he likes his name?” The hesitation in Percivals voice combined with the new scent coming off him set Lancelot on alert. He is up to something, even if The Weeping Monk does not know what. 

“Do I…. He responds to it. I imagine it doesn’t matter to him as it does to us.” He furrows his brows as he considers the boy's implication, but keeps looking ahead. 

“But do you know that for sure? Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he doesn’t like Goliath but likes being called Midnight. But you call him Goliath anyways because Midnight 'is a time of day'.” 

Ahh so that's what it's about, then. The thought makes him feel lighter; he could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “Percival… Is this about me telling you Squirrel isn’t a real name.” 

“I don’t know, bloody idiot, figure it out.” The boy crosses his arms in front of him, and Goliath whinnies as if in agreement with him. Gawain huffs the barest laugh in front of them, and his shoulders relax the barest amount. 

Lancelot's lips twitch uncertainly in the ghost of a smile and he refocuses on the boy in front of him. “Why don’t you like your name?” 

“I just don’t, okay.”

“Why do you want me to call you Squirrel instead?” It’s the same question in different words and he hopes that maybe the boy will answer. Though, he knows he is smart and may see it as the repetition it is. 

“Because I do.”

“Percival, those are not answers.” He tries to be gentle, but his voice comes out firm. He is accustomed to giving orders, not making requests. 

“Yes. They are.” Percival pouts and lets his hands fall to the saddle horn in front of him. 

“They are not useful answers.” He does chuckle lightly at this, so lightly it goes unnoticed, “I will make you a deal. If you can tell me why it is that you do not like your name and prefer me to call you Squirrel, then I will try to call you the name you prefer.” 

Percival fell silent as though he is thinking about what he wants to say in response to Lancelot's offer. He fidgets slightly with the reigns he is holding. Lancelot watches his movements carefully but does not worry much, Goliath is well trained. He notes Gawain casting a curious and unreadable look over his shoulder, but says nothing; there is no reason for it. Percival draws in a deep breath and Lancelot's lungs ache in reaction to it. He longs for the day when he can breath deeply again without his ribs protesting, or to ride without the constant dizzying reminder that they are broken. They are still far from healed enough to do something like that. Instead Lancelot focuses on breathing shallowly through his nose. 

“Gawain. Stop.” He hisses as he takes the reins from Percival and reigns Goliath up short. Gawain follows suit just in front of them, eyes darting around the woods for whatever he has seen. 

‘What is it?” Percival asks in a harsh whisper, Gawain looks at them quizzically, waiting silently for an answer.

“Paladins, I’m not certain how many,” glancing around and taking a deeper breath he adds, “Five or six maybe. Less than a mile ahead.” 

“How can you know that? There’s no sign of them.” The knight responds irate, eyebrow raised and eyes searching. Lancelot realizes that Gawain believes this to be a trap. It is not far from the reality of what could have been. He will have to speak the truth and hope that Gawain believes him. Shifting uncomfortably under The Green Knights relentless gaze he clears his throat and answers more quietly than necessary: 

“I can smell them.” 

He watches realization unfold on Gawain's face as everything falls together. Certainly Lancelot as a Fey could have led them to Nemos or elsewhere based on the old Fey signs they left, but he had been a child when he was taken, he wouldn’t have known all of it, maybe not even enough to take him to where the others were. But this, this information puts it all into perspective. He watches as Gawain shifts between surprise, confusion, realization, anger, and alarm. Before Gawain can open his mouth to respond, they hear shouting over the bluff.


	8. Tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur learns of Nimues condition. Pym and Yeva begin to bond? The Travelling Trio are, as always, in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case, for some reason, it is not clear. The events at the Fey cam are older than the events of the trio. I mean that they take place more during chapter 1-6. They will be in the same timeframe when/if they ever reunite. 
> 
> They will, it's just taking our boys a little time. And maybe they're dallying? 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also a big thank you to Silverfishy for beta reading! I appreciate it immensely! ( If you haven't read their work I highly suggest it! Same goes for SuperLizard who did the last chapter! Excellent writers.)

++++Arthur++++

Arthur is locked in discussion with the Red Spear. It is vital they become allies, he knows this, without her and her warriors the Fey would have been wiped out today. There would be none of them left in this group. He would have failed to protect them as Nimue requested. He must convince them that the Fey are worthy warriors, capable of returning the support of the raiders. For now the most important aspect of discussion is the vulnerability of the beach. If a storm blows in or the tides change, they could be trapped here. Tonight, remaining on the beach is their only option with so many wounded, but tomorrow they must find a more formidable location. Perhaps they can go back to the woods. 

“We should send scouts at dawn. Then we may burn the dead. When the scouts have returned we will move our injured.” 

“Aye.” The Red Spear agrees, then continues, “ Supplies will be short with so many mouths to feed. What would you recommend for it?” 

“We should ration, immediately. Send out hunters into the woods to bring back whatever they can to offset the difference. And send those who can pass for humans into the nearest town with funds to buy what we can.” He stands firm beneath the intensity of her gaze. He could swear it's as if she is looking through him, or perhaps she is looking into him. Setting his jaw he forces himself to meet her gaze and finds himself captivated by the angles of her face and the odd jewelry she wears. Shouting pulls him from his distraction and he turns to face a young boy running towards him. 

“Arthur! It's Nimue, she’s returned with Merlin and Morgana. Hurry, she's been injured!” He follows the boy across red sand, feet pushing against a malleable surface, slowing him as he attempts to reach his lover as quickly as possible. When he turns to call an apology to the Red Spear he finds that she is keeping pace with them. The boy slows to a halt and pants just ahead of him. Pushing through the crowd he comes to a stop, nostrils flaring as he inhales and chest rising and falling quickly. He watches as Yeva sends Pym to gather something for her and ushers two boys carrying Nimues limp form into a tent. 

The Moonwing casts a glance and Merlin and despite her obvious disdain for the man, nods, then shakes her head and enters the tent. Pym passes by him and he reaches out grabbing her arm in a vice-like hold. She meets his eyes and he loosens his hold minutely. 

“Will she be alright?” 

“We don’t know yet. I have to go and help.” She pushes his hand away and moves quickly towards the tent. Not quite a run but far from a walk. Her red hair flies freely in the breeze where it has fallen out of its braid, and for a moment he is taken back to the first moment he met these two girls, singing in Hawksbridge. That day feels so long ago. 

“The girl they carried into the tent. She is Queen of The Fey?” 

“Yes.” 

“And is she more than that to you.” 

He nods, throat to dry from lack of water to speak, and constricted with fear to function. Frantic voices draw his attention and he glances towards Merlin who is speaking urgently with his sister. His feet drag in the sand as he makes his way to their side. 

“Morgana what happened? Why are you dressed like that?” 

“It’s a long story Arthur. Nimue was shot twice by Iris. There wasn’t… we couldn’t do anything. She fell off the edge of the walk and into the waterfall. Arthur, we barely found her. She’s freezing cold, cold as death.” 

“Yeva, is skilled. She will heal Nimue. I am certain.” Merlin suggests, voice shaken but firm in its conviction.

“What about you? You're thousands of years old. You're her father. Why don’t you do something?” Morgana snaps back at him furiously, face drawn tight, and arms wrapped tightly around herself. 

“ I have not practiced my magic in almost two decades. I'm not sure I can help her. Even if I was certain I wouldn't do more harm than good, Yeva will not let me work beside her. When she is done I will do my absolute best to repair any remaining damage. For now, we must be patient.” The wizard says, inclining his head and leaning heavily on the sword pushed into the sand. His staff gone missing in the fray. Arthur bares his teeth, ready to say something else, to argue, start a fight, but it leaves him just as fast when a hand rests gently on his bicep. His sister looks up at him and he pulls her into an embrace. 

“Are you hurt?” 

“No. No I am not. But I have done something I fear cannot be undone.” She trembles in his arms and he can do nothing more than pull her closer, he never could shield her from the world, and now less than ever. He wants to help, but without knowing what has happened he cannot. 

“Morgana? Morgana, what is it?”

“Later my brother. Later. For now let us worry about Nimue.” He mutely agrees and looks between the two as he formulates what needs to be done next. The next thing is the only thing he can think of at this moment or he will go mad. There is so much to consider, so much still to do. Instead he begins to lead them towards the center of the camp. They linger a moment looking at the healers tent before he speaks. 

“You two must be hungry. Let us get you something in your stomachs and dry clothing.” 

None of them will sleep tonight. Not well at least, even with dry clothes and full bellies. So, as they sit around the fire in silence, waiting for whatever news the morning may bring, Morgana and Merlin take their turns explaining what occurred at Uther’s camp. 

Morgana tells him about Nimue’s plan for her to flee with the sword and how she decided to come back. He listens as she tells him and Merlin about how she had met the widow, and that she had killed her. As he listens to his sister speak, the belief that she is hiding something from him rears its ever present head and settles low in his gut. Their relationship is tenuous at best and he knows it, so he does not press for clarification or more answers. Just listens silently, idly drumming his fingers against his leg and casting furtive glances at the tent whose walls hide Nimue from them. Neither Pym nor Yeva nor the others have come to tell them anything. Eventually Morgana stops speaking and Merlin begins to explain what Uther has done. 

“Guinevier, The Red Spear, should hear this as well. She and her troops have agreed to help us, if we in return help them against Cumber’s men. It seems we have a common enemy in him, and now Uther as well.”

“And the Paladins?” Morgana inquires looking between them and towards the direction of the raiders. 

“The raiders have been sacking their camps as repayment for raiding the cities before they get a chance. It is to our benefit.” He offers a small smile to his sister.

“Nimue left you in charge, did she?” Merlin adds, looking into the fire. 

“Yes. She did, is there a problem with that?” He raises his eyebrow in question and stares at the exhausted looking man.

“No. I just find it curious is all.” He aches to slap the smirk off his wine drinking grin. Instead he sends someone to fetch the Red Spear. As they wait the sounds of the camp fill their ears. It is the sound of a war camp. The moans of the injured surround them on all sides in the dark of the night. The chill of the sea breeze billows the tent walls around them and carries the sound of death up the cliffs and over the fields. Whetstone on steel is a comfort against the cries of the heartbroken and injured. Morgana shifts to his right and he turns. 

“You wish to go help them?”

“I would be more useful trying to save a life than sitting here worrying.” She agrees as she stands and disappears into the shadows. Merlin shakes his head and drinks deeply from the goblet in his hand. 

When the raider joins them the three discuss the political game they have found themselves in. The Fey have their backs against a wall. If the Paladins, Uther, and now Cumber have sided with each other against them their only real hope is to side with the Red Spear and her raiders. Even then, there is little guarantee that any of them will survive. 

++++Pym++++

Even inside the tent it is cold. She shivers against the breeze and watches as Yeva sets up to begin working. She swallows away the tightness in her throat and approaches cautiously. 

“I want to help.” 

“Get her hair dry and get her out of these clothes. The last thing she needs is to catch cold.” The Moonwing bites out as she turns half way around to size Pym up. Half blind eyes meet hers and she wonders how this woman can still see to be a healer. Jumping at Yevas sudden proximity over the table she starts to unlace Nimues bodice with trembling fingers. It takes far too long to undress her friend and get her covered by blankets. Yeva works around her with little difficulty. She is grateful for that small mercy. If she were in the way she isn’t certain she could live with that. For now she stands at the head of the table they’ve laid Nimue on and towels long chestnut locks. 

She doesn’t take her eyes off Yeva as she works. It is inspiring to see old hands, twisted with time and tipped with talons work so delicately with the skin beneath their touch. The shoulder is the most logical place to begin as the arrow has already come loose but Yeva ignores it, looking instead at the bruising forming on Nimue’s head, and sides. She runs her hands over the young Fey’s arms and legs, feeling for broken bones, then down her ribs. 

“Feel this.” She speaks, low and raspy and Pym jumps again, not having expected for such a request to come from the matron. She extends her shaky hand and Yeva takes it, presses it against Nimue’s ribs and slides it up and down letting her feel just how real the damage is. 

“She must have hit a lot of rocks when she fell.” The whisper falls from her lips unbidden. It’s stupid. Surely, Yeva has already thought the same thing, but instead of telling her off the woman looks at her and asks, 

“Why do you think I haven’t started with the arrow wounds?” With hesitation, Pym considers the options carefully. She isn’t really certain, but there is not a lot of blood which means she should be concerned about infection. 

“They aren't bleeding? So, it gives you time to look for other injuries?” 

Yeva meets her eyes and gives a nod. 

“Now what should we do first?” 

“Why are you asking me? You're the healer.” Frustration fills her voice and she tries her best to keep it out but can’t. Her friend is dying and Yeva is standing there asking her questions instead of healing her. 

“You wanted to help. I am teaching you.” The old woman answers calmly, turning her back to the girls and reaching for several supplies. Indignant, Pym comes to stand by her, crossing her arms and jutting her chin out. 

“Well then teach me something!” The glare Yeva sends her way makes her spine tingle, slowly she steps back and lets her arms fall to her sides. 

“Sorry.” She looks to the ground. 

“Do not apologize to me. Do better.” The woman says thrusting a bowl half filled with water at her. 

“Clean the wound on her shoulder.” 

“Shouldn’t I add something to the water?” 

“I already have. Now go on.” She doesn't waste another moment to do as instructed and sets about cleaning the wound as best she can. It isn’t very deep into the tissue of the shoulder but she can see the edge of the bone when the debris has been cleared away. 

“Yeva, I can see the bone of her shoulder. And the skin is hot to the touch.” The Moonwing healer looks up from her concentration on the arrow lodged in Nimue’s stomach and lets out a long sigh. 

“Prepare a poultice of yarrow, beeswax and pepper for now. Apply it thickly and wrap it.” Moving away from the table, she finds the ingredients she needs on the table, the flickering light of the candles dancing ominously at the periphery of her vision. Focusing on her task she wills away the tears seeking to fall from the corners of her eyes away and mixes the ingredients. 

When she turns back around to apply the salve to the wound she finds Yeva cleaning the one on Nimues abdomen. This one does bleed. A lot. She knows from her time on the raider ship that the arrow was keeping the wound sealed. Applying the mixture to Nimues shoulder she watches the matron wipe blood from the entry site and flush the wound out with a mixture of herbs and water. When done she packs the wound with yarrow leaf and applies the rest of the poultice to the outside of the wound and wraps it tight. 

“We cannot stitch these, they are puncture wounds and there is infection in them. We must leave them open to drain. We will check them twice a day. Keep them clean and dressed until she is well. Until then we must keep her warm, and when she wakes keep her from pain as much as possible. Her lungs will ache, as will her leg.” 

“Her leg?” The look Yeva gives her could curdle milk, still she does not look away. 

“What is wrong with her leg?” 

“It is broken.” 

“What can we do?”

“Thankfully the bone does not need to be set. We must keep it still, until it has mended itself. Go and get the supplies for a splint. You know what's needed?” 

“Yes.” 

When it is done, the bone splinted, the wounds wrapped, Pym sits beside Nimue. She holds her cold hand in the darkness of the tent and weeps, keeping vigil until she falls unconscious with the first rays of morning light rising over the sea. 

++++Percival++++ 

“What do we do?” He casts his eyes forward to The Green Knight, then turns to look up at The Weeping Monk. He can feel his blood run cold at the thought of being captured. He remembers the smell of hot iron and burning flesh, old blood and vomit that lingered in the tent he found Gawain tortured in, the one Lancelot rescued him from, and his heart hammers in his chest at it. He remembers the sight of blood, old and dried and cracking, splattered on every surface. The way Gawain looked, bloodied and half dead, slumped against the ropes in the chair. He blinks. Head spinning, he tries to settle his stomach. Someone is speaking but it's like they are miles and miles away and he can barely hear them screaming over the rapid pulse of blood in his ears. He feels like he’s drowning. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of noise and it makes it so much worse. He feels like he’s falling over. 

“Percival! Percival.” 

There is commotion around him and his right shoulder hurts as if someone has wrenched it behind his back but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes just yet. 

“Squirrel? Are you alright? Squirrel.” 

He blinks and looks up at The Green Knight and The Weeping Monk, hand on his side and face screwed up in pain, both standing over him. He swallows and tries to take a deep breath as he attempts to sit up. 

“Careful,” Gawain says, voice steady and calm, though Percival can see the worry creased between his eyes. The Weeping Monk, looms over them both like an ominous statue, watching, he turns, takes a deep breath and winces.

“They’re getting closer.” He says turning to look back at them.

“Sorry,” Percival starts, looking between them as he runs his sleeve over the sweat on his brow, “What happened?” The shouting in the background grows louder. 

“We will talk about it later. We need to go. Come on, up you go.” Gawain pulls him along and he climbs up on the mare. He watches him turn to Lancelot. 

“You said five or six?” 

“Yes. But it's not exact. It’s never been exact.” 

“If we need to engage can you fight?” 

“Yes.”

“Alright. We will try to slip away unnoticed. If that fails…” The Weeping Monk nods at him solemn and dark beneath his hood and they both return to the saddle. 

“Are you going to give him the sword?” He whispers as he leans back against Gawain. He raises an arm up to block a low hanging branch, and The Green Knight does the same.

“If I have to.” The response is breathed against his ear as they lean low. 

“Left!” Lancelot calls from behind, Gawain glances over his shoulder and Lancelot has already cut to the inside, putting himself in the lead. They follow another trail into a valley. Gawain hot on his heels. When they reach the center, Lancelot breaks off and pulls his horse in a circle. It almost seems like he is looking for something.

“Why is he circling like that?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

The Weeping Monk comes to a halt facing them, both horses stepping side to side in excitement. 

“The woods are teeming with Paladins. The only way I don’t smell them is directly behind us, and that direction is about to be cut off.” Percival swallows and tries to keep himself calm. The Green Knight tightens his hold on him for a moment before releasing him. 

“Then you recommend we fight our way out?” 

Lancelot only nods, eyes never leaving Gawain's face. Percival inhales sharply and looks around the spot they have found themselves in. It’s not very defensible. 

“We need to get up higher.” He says automatically. Both the men with him know this, but he can’t help himself. They should be moving. 

“You’re right.” Gawain inhales sharply behind him and they fall into unmoving silence. 

“What are you waiting for, we need to go.” He feels Gawain shift behind him. 

“Here.” The Weeping Monk eyes the sword for a moment, before nodding slowly. Once the blade is in hand, they climb the otherside of the valley and lead the horses into a thicket. 

“Percival. Stay here with the horses. Do you understand?” The firmness in Gawain's voice is almost frightening as a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Yes. Green Knight.” He nods urgently and tightens his hand on the hilt of his knife. 

Lancelot whispers something softly to Goliath and hands him the reins. 

“We should cut back across the valley and take them by surprise.” He watches as Gawain stands and meets the monks eyes again. The two stand at arms length to speak, they can’t give away their location now. 

“How many now?” Lancelot adjusts the sword on his belt. 

“The initial six behind us, another four ahead, and two or three to the right.” 

“And further this direction?” Gawain points south. 

“A camp, from what I can tell. Too many to be a scouting or hunting party.” The Green Knight opens his mouth to say something but the monk moves quicker covering it with his hand and using the other to push Gawain further into the brush. Gawain retaliates quickly drawing a knife and pressing it against the others ribs poised to pierce his heart. Lancelot doesn’t flinch. Percival watches in horror as it unfolds to fast for him to help. When they’ve come to a stop barely a foot from him, Lancelot removes his hand from Gawain's chest and holds up an open hand, defensively and tilts his head to the opposite side of the thicket. Gawain, eyes wide, does not move the knife, but gives a slight nod. Lancelot takes a single step backwards and they listen in silence for what seems an eternity. 

“Good catch today?” Someone asks.

“Good catch? Those are the scrawniest rabbits I’ve ever seen. Barely fit for a stew.” Another supplies gruffly. 

“At least I caught us something” Another paladin says followed by laughter. 

Lancelot tightens his grip on the sword hilt and Gawain does the same, dagger still not lowered, attention caught between the possible enemy and the certain enemy. Percival swallows, they can’t see how many there are. It would be reckless to attack now, but as time drags on the voices grow quieter again. He takes a deep breath. Looks between the two who are watching him and nods. He’s okay. He’s okay. He repeats the line over and over again in his head until he begins to believe it. 

“What if we wait till nightfall?” He whispers when there have been no signs of the paladins for a while.

“Horses could give us away any minute. We need to move.” Gawain murmurs into the air between them. 

Lancelot nods once in agreement. Slowly the three of them start for the exit of the brushwood. Gawain lets Lancelot lead and Percival doesn’t understand why, but he trusts the Green Knight to know what he is doing. They make it back to the other side of the valley they had crossed before anyone speaks again. 

“Well then, Monk?” 

“It’s getting hard to sense their locations. It’s all bleeding together. Two of the groups must have come together here.” Lancelot says turning in a slow circle. “I do not know which way is safest.” He shakes his head at them. 

“We need to continue southwest. We should press on, get as far from here as possible before nightfall.” The Green Knight states firmly. There is no room for either of them to argue, not that they would have anyways. The monk mounts his horse and follows beside Gawain in silence. Percival keeps his eyes peeled as they move slowly through the woods. He thinks they should be moving much quicker. 

Eventually they pass by a small stream and rest for a moment. It's at the edge of the woods. The sun is beginning to fade from the sky. Percival drinks deeply from the clear stream and stretches. He feels a little better, still uncertain, still sick to his stomach, and ignorant of how he got on the ground earlier. But the pounding in his head has stopped and while he hates to admit it he hopes he never has to see a paladin again for a very long time. 

“Should we keep going?” He finally asks when the horses have been fed, watered and tethered and the other two have had a moment to sit. 

“We will be too exposed in the field.” 

“We’re too exposed here.” The Weeping Monk counters, softly, voice low enough it would be easy to miss in the commotion of a camp. 

Gawain shakes his head in frustration. Even Percival knows The Weeping Monk is right. 

“What are the paladins doing all the way out here anyways?” Squirrel asks, trying for casual, but the waver in his voice gives him away and he shrinks under the appraising gazes of the warriors to either side of him. 

“Search parties most likely.” Lancelot responds offhandedly taking a sip from a waterskin. 

“Not a main camp then.” 

“No. More likely, it is a base they spread out from, but it would have no more than 15 or 20 men. Three to five forming a party.” 

“Hunting Fey.” Percival looks at the ground, even he flinches at the venom in Gawain's voice, but Lancelot does not shy away, 

“Yes.” The admission slips from his mouth like ash thrown in the air. Percival stands abruptly, panic flooding his body with adrenaline. 

“What about our prints?” He looks desperately between the two men who also make their way to their feet. They share a knowing look. In its wake Percival feels a stab of betrayal low in his gut as he looks up first at the Green Knight and then at The Weeping Monk. How dare they share something with each other and not him? Hasn’t he known Gawain longer? Besides that, they are supposed to be protectors and they’ve left him vulnerable. They are supposed to protect the fey. Protect each other, now. Protect him. 

“Percival.” Gawain starts, kneeling to look him in the eye, he pulls away from the hand that tries to rest on his shoulder and inhales harshly. The ring of steel forces him to turn, Lancelot stands facing them, sword in hand. Gawain is too slow. Percival feels a burn like fire across his face as blood soaks his hair and clothes. The ground meets his face and he rolls, instinctively getting to his feet. He turns and draws his knife from his belt but he can't see through the blood in his eyes.


	9. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combat ensues, mistakes are made, people bleed. Emotions ensue, questions are asked, they worry. Infections ensue, decisions are made, someone wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working again so my update schedule will be getting wonky. I apologize. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> A huge thank you to Sheillagh from the server for the beta!

++++Gawain++++

In less than a second Gawain's eyes flick across the clearing around them. Quickly he snaps his head towards The Weeping Monk. The ring of steel fresh in his ears and all encompassing. The Monk is standing over him. He has seconds to move. Instinctively he pushes the boy away from himself and rolls back, sticky hot blood coats his face and chest and he gets to his feet. He’s unbalanced and slips on moss slick stones as he draws his sword. Lancelot places himself between Percival and a man in red, one already growing cold at his feet. A second glance around the clearing and forest edge tells him that there are eight more. It’s unavoidable now for any choice but combat. He hadn't truly thought they would find another way out of this, but between the exhaustion of traveling, The Monk's wounds and Percival's lack of skill he had clung to hope. 

“The boy was right. Your tracks led us right to you.” One of them says, stepping forward and addressing him. He glances to the side and glimpses Percival wiping at his eyes, and The Weeping Monk ready to defend him. He would have no choice but to thank him if they survived this. Right after he asks him how he hadn’t smelled them coming so close. Of course he himself hadn’t heard them either, the more rational side of his mind supplies. He tucks it away to deal with later. For now there is about to be bloodshed and he needs to be ready. 

Four to one. He grips the hilt of his blade tighter aware that he has certainly seen worse odds. Survived worse odds. Side stepping, he moves away from the creek until he is side by side with the other Fey. He contemplates telling Percival to run, but if anyone gives chase he will be unable to aid the boy. Instead he looks The Monk over, notes the tension in his stance, ready to spring, to attack. Percival shifts behind him, switching his weight between his feet. 

“Oh ‘ell look at t’is boys. T’e Abbit will ‘e proud a us, fer t’is. The ‘eeping Monk. ‘e r’lly is a traiter. Helpin’ t’e Fey!” The obvious leader of the group calls out and the others rally a cry behind him. Gawain watches as they fan out around them. Circling them like wolves circle their prey. He doesn’t have a choice regarding The Monk now. Either The Weeping Monk will stab him in the back, or will guard it. He turns his back on the lesser of two evils and prays for a miracle. 

“Percival, stay low. Do not fight them unless you have to,” rasps The Monk Behind him, voice low, dangerous and airy. 

“Do as he says.” Gawain hears his own voice say and shakes his head. He never dreamed a day would come when he agreed with The Weeping Monk so easily that he didn’t even have to think about it. That he would tell another to obey those orders. 

“Yes sirs.” Percival manages. He can hear the boy shift, hear the steady shallow breathing of Lancelot beside him, too shallow for combat, the silence in the woods and the babbling and bubbling of the brook. The rest of the world falls away as he focuses on the men baring teeth and swords at him. 

“‘’ell Boy’s. Get’em.” 

Gawain meets them head on. Neither he nor The Weeping Monk wait for their enemies to reach them first. He blocks the blow from one and turns into an arced swing felling another of the paladins. Turning back he catches the first with his foot and as he falls drives his blade deep through his side. Turning, he ducks beneath another blow, only to feel the impact of a blunt object against his side and sees The Weeping Monk take a knee. He stumbles, draws his blade back and lashes out, catching another paladin in the shoulder, just enough to draw blood. His own ribs, bruised and fractured send stinging pain through his side and he gasps for air as he blocks another blade from making contact with him. Rolling to the side he narrowly avoids being stabbed, catalogues the bleeding on his arm as non lethal and dances out of the way of his opponents. He catches the arm of a paladin, holds it steady against his side as he thrusts his blade through another red clad man and turns as the body struggling in his grasp goes limp. Another blade is removed from a paladin's stomach and Gawain lets the corpse fall away, locks eyes with Lancelot briefly and turns back to the others.

He notes that Lancelot is breathing heavily, and grimacing in pain. Likely from whatever had brought him to his knees earlier. There isn’t time to let it distract him as the leader of the group comes at him. This paladin is slightly more skilled than the rest, and Gawain takes a several moments longer to bring him to the ground, but succeeds with a well placed thrust of his blade, just beneath the heart, through the lung and spine.

The sound of shouting causes him to turn in a hurry; Lancelot is engaged with two Paladins, and one falls as he too turns to see what's happened. Seeing a moment of vulnerability the Paladin attempts to put an end to The Monk. He turns back to his opponent as Gawain, closer to the boy, rushes forward. Percival is trapped beneath a paladin and Gawain can’t see if he has his knife or not. Before he can reach him, the man stops struggling and gurgles, choking on his own blood instead. The hilt of a knife glistens red as it protrudes from the edge of a long, jagged slice on the man's neck. The sound of breaking bones reaches him as Percival struggles out from beneath the man covered from head to toe in dark red blood. Gawain offers him a hand up which he takes and they turn to Lancelot who drops the corpse of the final paladin to the ground and picks up his own blade. They share a look. 

“Stay with Lancelot. I’m going to ensure none got away.” 

Percival nods at him, but doesn’t move. The blood has caught in tear tracks on his face, and the image is almost the reverse of the monk's own marks. It takes Gawain aback for a moment. Finally, taking a deep breath and wincing at the pain in his side, he leads the boy, more forcefully than necessary, by the shoulders until he stands between the monk and himself. Lancelot gives him a nod and reaches out for the boy. As soon as Percival is in Lancelot's grasp, Gawain's sprints up the hill. It doesn’t take him long to walk the perimeter. He finds no signs that any escaped the skirmish. When he returns to the clearing, Lancelot is washing blood from Percivals shirt, while the boy bathes silently down stream.

The water is freezing, but Gawain would have told the boy to do the same. He kneels across from the Monk and starts on another of Percival’s clothing items. He notes the monk's cloak is gone, but says nothing. It’s not as though they have much in the way of spare clothing and while he doesn’t know him well, he has a hunch that he’s given it to Percival to stay warm with. 

“Any injuries?” 

“No, he is… Shaken. But he is unharmed.” He acknowledges this with a nod, and waits. When Lancelot doesn’t continue he presses. 

“And you, Lancelot?” 

“I’m fine.” Blue eyes flick up to meet his own and linger, he seems surprised at the use of his name. “ I’ve only aggravated my ribs. You?” 

“I’ll have a few new bruises. Nothing terrible, nothing new.” He glances down stream towards Percival, and finds him wrapped in Lancelot's cloak and sitting on a rock. 

“That cut is bleeding, fairly bad.” It catches him off guard, he had forgotten about it in the midst of battle and his panic for Percival. He looks at it now and pushes away the torn edges of his sleeve to get a better look. 

“Seems I’ll need stitches,” he notes but doesn’t stop working on the task at hand. 

“How is it you didn’t notice them?” The accusation is clear despite the even tone and the radiant calm of his voice. 

“As I said before, the scent is thick. They’re all I can smell...mostly. It’s overwhelming enough I can’t tell what is old and new.” Gawain considers this for a moment, and grinds his teeth. 

“I will not hesitate to kill you if you do what you did in that thicket again.” Lancelot looks up at him, grinds his teeth and nods. Taking another deep breath and pursing his lips Gawain continues, “Still, I owe you thanks, for saving our lives three separate times today. Thank you.” Lancelot shakes his head and sits back on his heels. 

“Don’t. It is the least I can do.” Gawain loses himself studying the look on the others face. Without his cloak he looks rather handsome, young and very lost. Far from the deadly wraith of the stories.

“Are you finished with that? I’ll lay it out to dry.” Gawain glances down, embarrassed and shakes his head, “yes.” He hands the garment over and Lancelot wrings it out. Standing he walks to the narrow bend in the stream and crosses. 

“Squirrel?” The boy startles, expectedly, and turns towards him. “May I?” Percival nods, and Gawain sits next to him. He wishes he knew what to say, to do. He knows his words will be empty and meaningless right now, but perhaps in the future they won't be. 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you were very brave, Percival. What you did wasn’t easy.” The boy looks at the ground and nods. Percival looks up at him now, large brown eyes red and swollen from tears. Instinctively he reaches for the boy, and Percival clings to him, gripping hard enough it will leave bruises where it digs into skin instead of armor. The words he may have said die in his throat, instead he lets his actions speak. 

++++Lancelot++++ 

He wants to give them time.To avoid intruding on a private moment, but the light is fading faster as night grows closer. The dark will bring wild animals drawn by the smell of blood, and it is unwise to linger longer than they must. Percivals clothing will take some time to dry, but between his extra shirt, and Gawain's extra trousers they can dress him suitably enough to travel. Beggars coast is still a days ride over the fields, and strategy says to make that jaunt during daylight. Still, the smell of blood is turning his stomach and with every moment they dally it grows more dangerous to remain.   
He searches through his saddle bag for the shirt; Bliant had washed it while he was injured. It would be large on Percival but it would be better than just the cloak. 

Squaring his shoulders he approaches slowly, and more noisily than he normally would. Combat put the best soldiers on edge, he didn’t need to spook Gawain, nor did he wish to frighten Percival more than he already had been. He remembered vividly the first time he took a life, and though he did not wish to care for the boy, his heart ached for his sadness. He scolded himself internally. He should not get attached, nor should he allow the boy to get attached to him, and yet with every passing day that is exactly what was happening. Even Gawain did not look at him quite like an enemy, but more as one might look at a soldier of unknown origins. Like he was truly beginning to question The Monk’s allegiances.

Gawain turns and acknowledges him so he approaches less cautiously. Percival is still burrowed into the knight's chest, but he isn’t crying. The smell of blood lingers on his skin, masked slightly by the boy's own scent, the smell of the creek, Lancelot's own cloak, and the recognizable scent of Gawain's blood. He glances at the offending wound pointedly then turns to Percival.

“Percival, I brought you my extra shirt.” His voice is steady and calm. Holding the shirt out to the boy he tries for gentleness that he does not feel and Percival looks at him, takes the shirt and hiccoughs a thank you. He can’t hear it, but he's certain that's what it looks like when the boy says the words. He turns back to the horses and starts checking their tack. He doesn’t need to do it per se, but he wants to give Percival a little privacy, and he is hoping Gawain will understand the look he gave him. Sure enough the Knight joins him, just as cautiously as he had approached them before. 

“You think we need to get moving.” Straight to the point, no hesitation or beating around the bush.

“Yes. The scent of blood carries farther than one might expect,” he responds casually, not making eye contact, and focusing on keeping his voice steady. Finally, after several long moments of silence he glances to his left and watches Gawain think, jaw clenched and eyebrows knit together in serious consideration. The bronze light of twilight glints off his hair, highlighting strands of lighter blond and red, softening his features. The treetops are coated in the same golden glow, and to the west, orange and vibrant pink color the horizon. 

“I agree with you. But… I am not certain we should go out into the flatland to camp. What are your thoughts about remaining in the forest?” 

He has never been asked his thoughts before and for a moment he doesn’t know how to answer. It has been his responsibility to be nothing more than obedient to Carden and the others over him. Or inversely, to give orders in their place. To speak of his opinions is not something he has experienced freedom with. The result of speaking his mind openly was always punishment; so, he hesitates, meets Gawain's eyes to show he is thinking, clenches his jaw and unclenches it several times and decides to answer carefully. He knows that he has plenty of experience to make a decision on the matter, but he wishes to remain in Gawain’s good graces and knows after his earlier actions he is on thin ice. 

“I’ll defer to your wisdom, but I think I would rather our chances on the flatland.” He finally utters the words, looks away from Gawain's eyes and to the right, past his shoulder instead. He focuses on breathing through his mouth, and it’s almost worse— the taste of blood sits heavy on his tongue. Though he isn’t sure if he is actually tasting it, or if his brain is filling in the missing details based on the scent of it. He catches Gawain studying him again as he asks more questions.

“Why?” Gawain asks like his opinion matters at all. Without looking back he studies the bark of the tree in his line of sight and answers politely, 

“If there was one group of Paladins there is bound to be another nearby. On the flatland we can run, even in the dark without much trouble. If we get attacked in the woods, we are limited in our escape options.” 

Gawain shifts in his peripheral, a nod of his head, he can feel the others gaze on him, scrutinizing.When he answers he sounds torn, upset by his own words. 

“Unfortunately, I agree with you.” 

He tilts his head to the side and turns to more fully face the knight of the Fey. That was not what he had expected. It doesn’t matter that he can see the bags that hang beneath the knight’s eyes, of the exhaustion and worry he carries in his shoulders, that he agreed so readily and without much persuasion concerns Lancelot to his core. He shakes his head to avoid those thoughts for now, and tucks them away to consider this evening when he is on watch and Percival has inevitably fallen asleep again. 

“Your wound needs tending before we do anything.” He glances at the brown red sleeve of Gawain's left arm and wrinkles his nose. Gawain follows the look and sighs. 

“Are you any good?” He looks up fast enough to make his neck ache. 

“At?” 

“Stitches.” Gawain isn’t looking at him now, the ground much more interesting than his face had been a moment ago. 

“Yes.” The admission is barely a breath among the sounds of the creek. Gawain nods, 

“Would you mind?” He motions to his arm with his chin. 

“No.” Gawain nods again. 

“Alright, let me take Percival my extra set of trousers.” 

“Percival, We need to get ready to move. See if you can make these trousers work until yours have dried.” The Green Knight's tone makes him flinch and he knows the harshness is meant to get Percival’s attention and nothing more, but it unsettles him as he watches the scene unfold. The boy looks up at him and blinks slowly twice over before he reaches out a trembling hand and takes the offered item from Gawain. Lancelot swallows back the words in his throat. His words will be of no use here. He tears his eyes away from the deep set frown and glistening green eyes of Percival’s face and focuses instead on listening to their surroundings, focusing on anything but the fact that ultimately Percival being forced to take a life is more blood on his hands. This is his fault and he wonders what Gawain will do when he realizes it. He digs in Goliath’s saddle bags for his set of needles to keep his mind focused. 

The sound of buckles being undone catches his attention but he stays focused as he cuts a hair from Goliaths mane. He threads it and turns to Gawain who is rinsing his shirt in the stream. It makes sense. He waits patiently for Gawain to finish and join him. It would be a lie to say he isn’t startled by the lack of raised scarring from the Archangels or from the other atrocities inflicted on the other man. He forces his eyes not to linger over the scared expanse of The Green Knight's chest and arms. Instead he focuses on the wound to his bicep, presses the skin together to see where to start the stitches and clenches his jaw. Whether he is gentle or not he does not know, Gawain barely makes a sound as he works, though his breathing hitches a few times. Lancelot knows this is not his first time getting stitches on the battlefield. Finished with stitching the wound, he reaches for the bandages and the small container of salve Bliant had sent with them. He smears the thick herbal smelling paste over the wound and holds his breath in the process. The herbs certainly smell better than the blood, well most of the blood, but at this proximity are too strong. With practiced efficacy he bandages the wound. Then without thinking it through he says, 

“I also recommend that we don’t light a fire. I know it would be convenient, may even seem necessary,” he glances in Percivals direction, “to warm him up and for the benefit of warm food, but…“ He trails off unable to say what he means. If they light a fire and there are more paladins around, then the boy may have to repeat his actions again, and right now, in the condition he is in that could be deadly. 

“I know. I’m worried about him too.” 

“I...“

Gawain smiles sadly at him and turns to redress in his spare shirt and don his armor. Silently he checks the tack on his own mare. They work in silence going over their supplies. Eventually, Gawain leads his own horse over to Percival, swallowed in the depths of clothing and cloak. He follows with Goliath in tow. Neither of them talks about the good it will do to remove him from the sight of the battle field. It goes unspoken between the soldiers the way experienced musicians change keys without more than a subtle glance and tlilt of the head at one another.

++++Nimue+++

Waking to pain and numbing cold was not what she expected. Not that she could really say she expected to wake at all. The last memories she has are of pain and shocking cold. The memory of falling and hitting water at an achingly speed, unable to even cry out, paralyzed by fear and agony. She tries to open her eyes but they won't obey. They feel heavy and she resigns herself to leaving them closed. She tries to open her mouth but that too refuses to obey and she wonders if maybe she is dead. Her hands are warm though, warmer than the rest of her and she can’t figure out why. She tries to open her eyes again and still the most she gets is the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek. The cold makes her over sensitive and she is acutely aware of the loss of heat in her right hand. 

“Merlin! Wake up. Merlin!” Pyms voice says, loud and far away. She would smile if her cheeks weren’t so stiff. 

“What? What is it?” The voice of the aged magician, her father, responds and the previously weak grasp on her left hand renews its hold, tight, almost painfully so. 

“I think she might be trying to wake up.” 

“Why?”

“Her eyelids fluttered, and her mouth twitched.” 

Nimue tries to open her eyes again and fails, instead she wills the stiffness in her fingers away and tries to squeeze her fathers hand. She feels the barest twitch of her own fingers, stiff as those of a corpse and wants to cry. She’s here, but she can’t communicate it. She feels something warm and damp on her forehead; the liquid trails down her temple and gets lost in her hair. 

“Please wake up Nim. Please.” Pym’s voice breaks above her. She wants to but even now the icy depths of the dark lake call to her. She doesn’t hear what Merlin whispers next as her mind drowns, sinking deeper and deeper into the hollow shell of her body.

When she surfaces again, she doesn't know how much time has passed. She does not try to move this time. There is hot pain in her shoulder and stomach and even her leg aches. She can hear raised voices, closer than they had been before but she can’t focus long enough to make out all the words and understand what is being said. It comes in snatches of conversation. 

“Move, could die.” 

“Don't. All. Dead.” 

“Medicine?” 

“Hidden.”

“Gods, Arthur.” 

Whatever they're talking about, she can't be bothered to try and follow. Instead she tries to push the pain she feels away, ignorant of the fire now burning in her veins chasing away the ice and the numbness that had grasped her before. Everything is agony and she willingly sinks back into the dark embrace of the water that soothes her forehead and throat, and protects her body. 

The third time she comes to, bright light filters through her eyelids and she tries to turn her head away from it. She feels like she is being tossed about by the waves of the ocean, the current of the river. It hurts all over, and the fire is still in her veins burning hotter than it did before. There is screaming nearby and it startles her. She tries to open her mouth to respond in some way, to comfort, or correct but words don't come, and she finds her mouth is already agape. A heavy weight settles on her body and she feels like she is being suffocated. She tries to cry out but her throat is raw, and she tastes blood in her mouth. She tries to move her arms and legs to get away from the weight settled over her, it reminds her of the time she was pinned down in the forest by the paladin. She can hear the whispers of the hidden near her and tries to call out to them. Panic grips her and she tries to fight against it. She almost succeeds, almost gets her eyes open but then she is being dragged down, down, down, into the abyss below the waves. 

This time she does open her eyes. The room she is in, if it can be called a room, is dark, lit only by a single flickering candle. Her throat aches, and her lips are chapped when she runs her tongue across them in an attempt to wet them. To seek relief. She is thirsty. She blinks away the blurriness in her eyes and tries to look around the room. It makes her head spin, but the familiar scent of the forest fills her nose and she relaxes a little. Her right hand is warm and she looks for the source of that heat. Pym is slumped over in a chair next to her bed, hand wrapped tightly around her own, and head lying on the edge of the cot. Nimue smiles, the barest tug on her lips, and feels the skin split and blood well up. She’s too tired to attempt to wake Pym for something as simple as a glass of water. Instead, she closes her eyes and drifts back to sleep.


End file.
